


All The Money In The World

by HerSistersKeeper



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Badass Rey, Ben Solo Gets Sober Whether He Likes It Or Not, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Everyone is wealthy, Eye Sex, F/M, First Kiss, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren Redemption, Met Gala, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Money, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Rey Kenobi, Rich Bitch AU, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Rey/Kylo Ren, Snark, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wealth, upper class, vogue magazine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerSistersKeeper/pseuds/HerSistersKeeper
Summary: Ben Organa-Solo was well aware and rather fond of his reputation. He had been made aware of his place in life via a New York Post cover when he had graduated high school, which called him a party animal and heartbreaker and some more things of the like, and well, he rather liked the sound of that, thanks very much. He's the wild child of the rich Skywalker family and is very good at his job.Meanwhile, Rey Kenobi, an heiress in her own right and a Vogue photographer, is very careful and aware of risks that should and shouldn't be taken. To her, Ben Solo is her worst nightmare: careless, reckless, just asking to end up dead from his vices-- not unlike her parents. Not even all the money in the world could make this worth it-- right?Unfortunately, thanks to a Ben Solo hissyfit, she's responsible for getting his photo in the next issue of Vogue, which leads to  her personally dragging Ben down a long and convoluted road to redemption-- kicking and screaming.The Rich Bitch AU no one probably asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegingerirritant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegingerirritant/gifts), [pythia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pythia/gifts).



> A story inspired by Adam Driver's recent Cannes photoshoot, and my love for Ben Solo as a disaster. If you squint and tilt your head, you can maybe see some inspiration from "My Fair Lady," but not a lot.
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated!

The sun had barely lifted its sleepy face to look at Manhattan when Rey Kenobi’s elevator reached  _ Vogue _ ’s floor in the World Trade Center, but she knew that the only way to see her godmother without scheduling three months in advance was to visit the office before 6:00 a.m. She could hear the diplomatic and measured tone of her godmother murmuring to her as the elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal a lonely workspace, the earlybirds not even scheduled to come in before 8 a.m.

 

_ When you’re rich, you’re always busy, Reyna dear. Chivalry may be dead, but punctuality isn’t.  _

 

She nodded to the security guard, Marty, as she passed the front desk, focusing on how her high heeled boots clicked on the smooth floor, how her tan trenchcoat wisped against her jeans as she strode past the many desks, the many offices, down the hall and to the right. The route was one practiced for fourteen or so years, one that she had tread every day after school since the New Year’s Eve accident that made her an orphan and the wealthiest heiress under 30.

 

One could expect that to make one grow up privileged, but it only made Rey grow up careful, aware and ironically in debt to the people that had taken her on after her parents’ untimely demise. As such, Rey was not one to make requests, knowing that she owed her life and livelihood to the woman behind the desk she now approached, the office door shutting behind her softly. Today though, she was making the exception, nodding to her godmother.

 

“Reyna. I was wondering when you would stop by.” It may have been rude for her to snort, but the twenty-something did, ignoring the raised eyebrow that greeted the sound.

 

“That has to be an understatement, at the very least, Auntie.”

 

If there was anything to hate about being rich, it is the existence of other rich people. 

 

One could possibly argue a plethora of other things that made being rich and famous the worst, but Rey Kenobi had been a little rich girl for long enough to not believe any of it. 

 

Sure, some problems stung: money wouldn’t bring back parents dead in a car crash, as she had dryly pointed out at many a cocktail party, but the stinging was soothed by being provided for via a trust fund, being raised by a godmother who happened to edit a famous magazine and having the world at her feet after graduation. 

 

Really, Rey could only complain about the other rich bitches she found herself surrounded by on any given day. As a magazine photographer, that could mean complaining about someone being three hours late to a shoot because they were craving a French breakfast and flew directly to Paris for it, or it could mean having to watch some debutante pitch a fit over not being loaned Tiffany diamonds for the shoot and spending at least half an hour on the phone pouting to her daddy and stamping her foot every so often. 

 

However, it certainly did beat photographing bar mitzvahs and weddings. That thought certainly curbed any complaints that could pop up.

 

However, when Amilyn Holdo, her godmother and editor-in-chief at Vogue, had handed her her latest assignment, Rey had considered throwing a tantrum that would put any of her clients to shame.

 

“I thought we had arranged it  _ specifically  _ so I didn’t have to photograph him,” Rey had hissed at Amilyn, frowning at how her godmother didn’t look up, her eyes shielded by her iconic sunglasses, blonde curls perfectly coiled and her French manicure just so. 

 

“Trust me, his mother and I are both as displeased as you are by the development.” Amilyn frowned at something on her laptop’s screen, backspacing rapidly, muttering something about florals under her breath. “Snaps was supposed to take care of his session while you handled the rest of the family portraits, but…”

 

“Let me guess: Snaps had his camera snapped in half.” Rey sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. In hindsight,  _ Vogue  _ should have insured Snap’s equipment by tenfold before sending him into the lion’s den, but for some reason, the magazine was always a bit forgetful, or perhaps hopeful, when it came to dealing with Skywalker descendents…

 

Which unfortunately meant sacrificing their cameras to the wild child that was Benjamin Organa-Solo, the topic of this conversation, destroyer of things and people.

 

Amilyn sighed, shrugged, casting off her glasses wearily. Rey frowned at the dark circles under the woman’s eyes, but didn’t deny the bit of warm satisfaction that slipped in pettily. Good, she was losing just as much sleep over the mess.

 

“Apparently the young man was a bit jealous at not getting ‘fair treatment,’ as he called it,” Amilyn chuckled hollowly, shaking her head. “There’s no good or diplomatic way to explain that one’s playboy tendencies precede them, or that their own parents is aware of it enough to attempt an arrangement to avoid a possible sexual harassment lawsuit…”

 

“So now we’re catering to his hissyfit.” Rey shook her head, glanced out the window that made up Amilyn’s office wall. The morning sun was rising, albeit sluggishly, and she took a moment to appreciate the warmth, closing her eyes for a moment. “You know, it’s because of a history of getting his way that he’s so hard for anyone to deal with. And that’s not even counting the…”

 

“Don’t bring up the DUI incident again; I’m well aware.” Amilyn scowled at her goddaughter and her smirk as she looked back at her, batting her eyes innocently.

 

“I was going to say ‘and that’s not counting the time that I met him.’ Remember? My debutante party, where he made an ass of himself without a bit of substance in him.” Rey drifted to Amilyn’s elbow, perching herself on the desk, ignoring her aunt’s glare. Instead, she cast her eyes down and onto the lone framed photo Amilyn kept on her otherwise minimalist desk.

 

It was perhaps in bad taste to have the graduation photo of your number one photographer on your desk, but Amilyn Holdo never claimed to be above nepotism, favoritism, or anything of the like. Rey was well aware that her godmother loved her fiercely, would protect her no matter what, and so she knew she should relax and relent. She wouldn’t send her into harm’s way knowingly.

 

There was a sigh, and then Amilyn’s hand was squeezing Rey’s and the young woman glanced away from the photo. “Just one session, sweetheart. You just need to take his picture maybe three times and then you can leave. Finn will be going with you under the guise of following up on their interview, and will immediately call the authorities if Mr. Solo even thinks about breaking your camera.”

 

Rey forced her grimace into a small smile, nodding. “As you wish, Auntie.” 

 

She pushed herself up, grinning just a bit now as she muttered, “If you stopped covering the Skywalkers in the magazine, we wouldn’t be in this mess year after year, y’know.”

 

“Why don’t you go tell the Skywalker family to stop being rich and famous and then we can talk, hmm, Starshine?” Amilyn smirked back at her goddaughter, lifting her sunglasses back to her face and adjusting them on the bridge of her nose. She lowered them to peek at Rey over the rims, like a strict schoolmarm. “Now run along before I swat you with last year’s Fall issue.”

 

“I’ll see you at Sunday brunch,” Rey called over her shoulder, shaking her head as she left the office, nodding at Marty again. She pulled her phone from her coat pocket as she boarded the elevator, scheduling out the next few hours in her head. It was barely 6:30, and she was due at the Solo penthouse at 10 a.m. for the photoshoot… which left her plenty of time to stop by the Met.

 

After all, it was almost April, practically May, and someone had to check in about the gala arrangements.  _ And maybe peruse the art once again,  _ she thought to herself, smiling. 

 

Truly, the only bad thing about being rich was the other people. Having an all-hours pass would never get old for the richest orphan on New York’s Upper East side. For a few hours, she could easily forget the eventual thorn in her side known as Ben Solo.

 

* * *

 

It was almost surprising that the day wasn’t already overcast and gray when Ben opened his eyes, sunlight streaming in to accompany an annoying chirping alarm. He almost rolled over and reached towards the other side of the bed, where last night’s girl may still be, but then he spied the time on his trilling phone and remembered that she probably had scooted hours ago. After all, it was 10:30 a.m. and anyone contributing to society, even lazily, had been awake for at least an hour by now. 

 

No one dared to stay the night at his place, and he was a bit too proud of the fact to be hurt over it, rolling on his back to smirk at himself in the mirror above his bed. 

 

Ben Organa-Solo was well aware and rather fond of his reputation. He had been made aware of his place in life via a  _ New York Post  _ cover when he had graduated high school, which called him a party animal and heartbreaker and some more things of the like, and well, he rather liked the sound of that, thanks very much.

 

It sounded much more cavalier to be the Skywalker problem child than the neglected and unloved son of the richest people in New York City. Some shrink would probably pay a small fortune to get him on their couch, to try and get him to admit why he insisted on partying, breaking things, ruining people and then running to hide behind a ton of money. There was no deep answer, he’d insist: he just found what he was actually good at, and he enjoyed his job very much. 

 

Besides, maybe it was a lot of fun to ruin his parents’ days every so often to get back at them for not hugging him enough or whatever contributed to his alleged abandonment issues. (Yes, he was an asshole, but he was a very self-aware one, which made him tolerable. At least, in his opinion. The jury was still out.)

 

So yes, it was just par for the course to pitch a fit over not having the same photographer as the rest of his family. He couldn’t remember what the photoshoot was for, or what his family had done to warrant yet  _ another  _ article profiling them for the plebeians. There had been  _ many  _ articles during his 33 years on earth, and what was one more?

 

If anything, he had fully intended to behave this time around, as boring as it was, before he found out that his mother, father, uncle, even the goddamn family dog, had been photographed by one person and he was getting another.

 

No, this simply would not do.

 

And maybe he did feel a bit bad about smashing that one guy’s camera to bits during his rampage, but in the moment, it was a riot, and reminded him of how much more fun this kind of thing had been with a bit of cocaine up his nose. (The cocaine habit had come to a screeching halt after that DUI two years ago, and Ben Solo would be a liar if he said he didn’t miss the substance some days.)

 

Either way, he had gotten his way, even if there was a few caveats to go along with it, including one  _ very  _ stern phone call from Amilyn Holdo herself, threatening him with bodily harm if he dare touch a hair on his new photographer. 

 

In the end, he hadn’t promised to behave. He learned that it’s better to  _ never promise shit.  _ Less disappointment that way. He learned that one from his dad.

 

However, he was going to try to be on his best behavior because he recognized the photographer’s name from her high society debut years ago. He usually didn’t give a shit, especially when it came to girls that he hadn’t fucked, but this one was different. Maybe it was because she hadn’t acted like an heiress, more like a scholarship student, when they had met, or maybe it was because she had basically told him to fuck off.

 

Really, anyone’s guess was as good as his. His intercom buzzed now, and he scoffed at the inconvenience of having to get up and answer it himself. Such was the peril of being between staffs at the moment.

 

He roused himself somewhat successfully, opting for a towel around the waist instead of bothering to put on pants, maybe hoping to feign industriousness, act like he was about to get in the shower and had merely lost track of time.

 

_ Like that would work,  _ he chuckled to himself.

 

His apartment was a mess from the night before, the little soiree he had attempted to host quickly turning into something akin to the maenads’ Bacchanalia, where he served as both worshipper and worshipped. If anything, his towel was fitting, a tribute to Dionysus.

 

Not that Reyna Kenobi would appreciate his line of thinking. 

 

_ "Tell me a fun fact, Miss Smarty-pants." Ben watched the girl turn back to him slowly on the balcony, and he smirked, tapping off the ash of his cigarette into the New York wind. She certainly looked cross at him, but he couldn’t decide if her flush was from the chilly night air or his teasing.  _

 

_ He could ask her, but she’d probably slap him for that. _

 

_ Was he an asshole for bothering a debutante on what was supposed to be her night to shine, a little rich girl who just wanted to catch her breath and study like the good little girl she probably was? _

 

_ Probably, but he never claimed that he was a  _ **nice** _ man.  _

 

_ She was looking at him carefully now, school book clasped tightly to her side, her elbow length gloves silky and smooth, her bright eyes catching the city lights just so. She would definitely grow up with a face that wouldn't require her to work, if she played her cards right.  _

 

_ "Fun fact." She sighed, rolling her eyes, maybe at him, maybe at herself for indulging him. "A tortoise can drink water with its rectum." _

 

_ Ben was blinking at her now, about to ask his mouth, ask why she knew that when she beat him  to the punch, snapping: _

 

_ "Unlike you, who is a completely useless asshole." She twirled on her high heels, and in a flash, the little rich bitch was heading inside, big ridiculous debut gown rustling around her. _

 

_ Despite it, he laughed harder than he had ever before. _

 

Even now, his lips were quirking into a smirk at the memory, eight years later, answering his penthouse door in only a bath towel and the smile. On the other side, a certain Reyna Kenobi-- once debutante, now Vogue photographer, stood, waiting to glare at him, her mouth gaping, aghast. 

 

Oh good, she remembered him too. 

 

"Miss Smarty-pants, fancy seeing you again." He leaned on his doorframe, grinning down at the girl--no, woman.

 

Really, he shouldn't be surprised that she slapped him now, a fitting reflex for the trouble he had already caused her. It was a gesture eight years overdue.


	2. Chapter 2

Armitage Hux couldn’t remember a time he  _ wasn’t  _ cleaning up after Ben Solo. By some twist of fate or some spiteful god’s decree, the universe and high society had determined that the two men were to be the other’s right hand, best friend and foil, for all intents and purposes.

 

It reminded Armitage of having a younger sibling (which was odd, seeing that both he and Solo were only children), and he considered it lucky that Solo was his own whipping boy and fully content to get egg on his face. Where Ben was wild, Armitage was tame, and it should annoy him by now that he was always stepping in and fixing things for the man-child, but he accepted it nonetheless.

 

Better to be cleaning up after a live Ben Solo than carrying his casket, right?

 

So no, it did not surprise Armitage Hux to get a phone call at the crack of 11 a.m. on a Saturday from a seemingly embarrassed Ben about using his living room for a photo shoot.

 

Seeing that Ben Solo didn’t have a concept of shame, the fact that he was chagrined on the phone was enough for Armitage to agree quickly to the request, a move that he realized could be a mistake after hanging up the phone. He preferred his residence clean, his furniture elegant and sleek, his floors pristine, a Roomba whirring softly now as it did its morning round before returning to its dock.

 

Still, Armitage cleared his dining room table, cup of coffee in hand, and all but posted himself up at his front door. He just had to see what disaster Ben was bringing with him this morning.

 

He was almost disappointed by Ben’s arrival, but not quite-- after all, it wasn’t every morning that you see your best friend being dragged in by an heiress turned photographer, top-notch journalist following in their wake, apologetic but smiling.

 

It was perhaps a gross exaggeration to say that every wealthy member of New York society knows each other, but perhaps it wasn’t too much of an exaggeration. Armitage considered the thought as Reyna Kenobi nodded to him gratefully as she released Ben’s arm, her grin sweet and warm.

 

“Armitage, always a pleasure to see you,” she murmured, heaving a sigh as she strode ahead, finding his living room easily. She had been to enough soirees, had taken his picture enough to know the lay of the land, but he didn’t miss how Ben’s eyes seemed to narrow in suspicion at her familiarity.  _ Interesting. _

 

“Likewise, Reyna. I wish it was under more sociable circumstances.” He nodded to Finn Storm, the journalist who seemed to be standing nervously in his foyer alongside Ben, eyes darting between the playboy and his friend who had retreated without him.

 

“The living room is right down the hall, to the left and then the right,” Armitage noted, the journalist nodding gratefully before walking off, perhaps a bit too quickly, the rest of Rey’s equipment bumping against his legs.

 

Armitage rounded on his friend now, shutting the door firmly behind him. “So what did you do now, Ben? Did she show up this morning to a slew of hookers on the sofa and crack on your coffee table?”

 

The crassness would usually get a laugh from the other man, but instead he frowned, waving his hand as if to shush him. “No, no-- you know that I don’t mess with that stuff anymore.”

 

“Correction: I  _ hope  _ that you don’t mess with that stuff anymore. Your mother would have your ass and mine if you got back into that mess.” The elicited a small grin from Ben, and Armitage nudged him. “So confess, sinner boy. Why the hell is your penthouse no good for a short photoshoot?”

 

“I may have had a rowdy party last night, where other people made a mess for me.” Ben shifted his weight foot to foot, jaw working with thought. “I may need a new couch.”

 

Armitage had barely heaved a sigh when Ben’s eyes snapped to him. “Trust me, you don’t have to scold me. Miss Smarty-Pants in there did so for you.” A feral grin now, and an admission: “She slapped me first thing this morning.”

 

“If I could start all of your mornings like that, I feel like you’d be on the straight and narrow by now, Solo,” Hux muttered, turning back as the click of heels sounded behind him.

 

As usual, Reyna was every inch put together, her hair clipped in an updo, her lips prettily painted red, her black turtleneck without a speck of lint. It almost struck Armitage as funny that this prim woman could have hauled back and smacked someone as messy as Ben Solo without a worry of losing decorum, but instead, it turned him thoughtful. 

 

Especially as he glanced back at Ben and found him attentive, even as he attempted to look disinterested, as if he had better things to do. 

 

“I’m just about all set up,” Rey explained somewhat breathlessly, her smile wide, pleased. “Your living room is perfect, Armie; so much natural light, and your furniture pieces should provide a nice contrast.”

 

Ben snorted then, and Rey’s smile became terse, her eyes steely as she looked around her host, to her subject. “I honestly don’t want to hear a peep out of you, Mr. Solo. I’m still rather mad at you delaying us by an hour.” She looked at her wristwatch and scowled. “An hour and a half if you do not go get dressed this instant.”

 

She crossed her arms, drumming her fingers against her elbow, her glare piercing. No, there was no love to be had between photographer and subject, and Armitage wondered how the hell the shoot would go. He had worked with Rey enough times to know that she coaxed her clients into comfort with talk, compliments, and gentle directives.

 

At this rate, Ben would probably be lucky if Rey eventually stopped glaring from behind the camera, much less hear a kind word from her. 

 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart-- I’m on my way.” A sly smirk, a lifted eyebrow, and Armitage knew that the next few hours would be infuriating and entertaining in equal measures. “Can I use your bathroom,  _ Armie? _ ” 

 

* * *

 

They worked in silence, and it was disquieting on several levels for Ben. He preferred catastrophe over tranquility, cacophony over murmurs, chaos rather than peace. So to be subjected to the silent treatment by the woman examining him from behind her camera…

 

Well, it was more constricting than the tuxedo he was forced to wear. 

 

In another life, little Miss Reyna Kenobi probably would have made a fantastic dominatrix. That thought would definitely earn him a slap if she was aware of it, and if he was being honest, his cheek was still smarting from her blow this morning. However, she had him completely at her mercy, her grip firm every time she adjusted his gaze, shifted his posture for the pose. Her hands seemed to burn hot against him when she did touch him, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek every so often to quell some inappropriate comment, knowing that to speak would be to end the session.

 

Still, he didn’t realize he was as touch-starved as he was until her hand was smoothing his hair down, brushing a bit of lint of his broad shoulders, spent more than five seconds in his space, in his air, her presence almost as sweet and cloying as the perfume she had surely dabbed behind her ears, on her wrists early that morning. 

 

It wasn’t often, the woman seeming to prefer to stay behind her camera, at a safe distance, as if he was some poisonous snake coiled to strike. If he was a snake, she was a mongoose, well-poised to take him down. The thought made him smile, and his ears perked as she loudly sighed, her camera clicking.

 

“Mr. Solo, I thought I told you to stay serious.” She frowned at him, lifting her gaze from her camera’s screen to him. He stretched his arms overhead, taking an unofficial break, resting his hands behind his head now. 

 

“Sorry, Miss Smarty-pants. I just had a funny thought.” He grinned at her, and wondered if she would be looking over a pair of glasses in bemusement at him. If she wore glasses in her off time.

 

Her frown deepened, and he chuckled. “If you want, sweetheart, I can share my thought with the rest of the class.”

 

“I really don’t want to hear whatever you’re thinking about, Mr. Solo.”

 

“That’s fine. But Mr. Solo is my father. I’m just Ben.” He grinned at her indignant sniff, how she straightened, stiffer than a ramrod.

 

“I’d rather die than call you that, to be perfectly honest.” She stretched too now, a deep seated sigh slipping from her lips, a weary sound.

 

“Why? Would you prefer only saying my name in bed? I’ve met a few girls like that,” he mused, spreading his arms to lay them across the back of the couch. In the next room, he could hear Armitage softly talking to Finn, probably some supplemental material for the interview, the article that would surely accompany the shoot. 

 

He had no idea if this was going well or not, only that he was finally enjoying himself. 

 

“Manners, Mr. Solo.” She clucked her tongue at him, but for a moment, he could have sworn that there was a hint of a smile curling around the words, the ghost of some amusement. Perhaps he was charming her, slowly but surely. 

 

Not that she’d let him know if that was the case.

 

"Besides, unlike the poor souls you managed to get into your bed, I don't find you a bit attractive." She jutted out her chin, harrumphed at him. "You're not my type whatsoever."

 

"Yeah? What is your type, Miss Smarty-pants?" He hated to admit how fascinated she had him, feeling himself lean forward on the couch, towards her and her camera.

 

She didn't look at him, adjusting her camera, motioning him to lean back instead. "One could say I'm into BDSM."

 

"That's not a type of man, sweetheart." He expected her to glare at him, to flush at being called out, found to be vanilla, but instead she smiled, glancing at him through her camera.

 

"In my experience, it stands for 'big dick, small man.'" She all but cooed at him, the camera shutter clicking rapidly as his jaw dropped.

 

Those shots were unusable, to be sure, but it wouldn't surprise Ben if the woman kept them anyways. It wasn't every day that you could render rich bitch Ben Solo speechless like that.

 

He scowled at her now, leaning back and gripping the couch’s arm for purchase. As if it was the only thing keeping him from springing up and kissing that smirk off her mouth-- but no, he was a good boy for the moment, sitting quietly and letting her take his picture, seemingly content with his performance for now. 

 

Really, truly, she had him around her little finger, and it annoyed him to no end.

 

That didn’t mean that he didn’t like it though. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“So, what is he like?” Rose Tico daintily sipped at her mimosa, looking over her sunglasses at Rey, who was in the middle of a bite of pancakes. Both glanced down the table, but Amilyn and Paige, Rose’s older sister, were too busy chatting about the upcoming fashion shows Paige would be walking in the next season.

 

Rey dabbed at her mouth, frowning. “He’s as one would expect. He’s Ben Solo: he has mommy and daddy’s money and no one has ever told him no before.”

 

“At least, before you showed up on the scene,” Rose teased, grinning at Rey’s derisive snort, the latter plucking an olive out of her bloody mary as she thought. 

 

Sunday brunch had been a long standing tradition since the girls’ high school years, with Amilyn always happily treating. Among murmurs of “You girls keep me young,” and the most scandalous of gossip from the upper-crusts, there was an air of sophistication, exclusivity, and femininity at the table.

 

As such, it was somewhat taboo to be talking about the male sex at the table, unless Amilyn was late, or the topic was which rich man had cheated on his wife with their tennis instructor in the Hamptons. 

 

Still, Rose looked at Rey expectantly and she sighed, her eyes drifting up and to the door. As if someone like Ben Solo would dare to encroach on an establishment like the Dirty French before noon. She had seen firsthand that he wasn’t an early riser, so she pushed her nerves away and leaned forward.

 

“It had to happen sometime.I just happened to be the first person.” She huffed, thinking back on the prior day. “I mean, after keeping me waiting at his front door for half an hour, only to answer the door in a towel, with a mess behind him? He’s lucky I only slapped him.”

 

“Wait, he was in a  _ towel _ ? And you left that detail out?” Rose pouted at her, and even as she rolled her eyes, Rey smiled. The Tico sisters were angelic, models and designers in their own right, and Rose had been her flatmate while they attended Parsons. The woman across from her was as close as a sister as she’d ever have, and if that included indulging the woman’s lecherous thoughts, so be it.

 

“Yes, unfortunately. And no, before you ask, I didn’t see anything  _ under  _ the towel.”

 

Rose scoffed, rolling her eyes now. “I figured, or else Amilyn would have started off the brunch with talk of the pending litigation.” She smirked now, waggling her eyebrows. “Although, if the previews that Amilyn showed us of your shoot yesterday is any indication, I would  _ gladly  _ sue him just to have an excuse to be in the same room as him.” 

 

“Jesus Christ. Rosemary Marilyn Tico, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Rey scolded, quelling a giggle as Rose cackled to herself, muffling the sound with her napkin.

 

“What are you two laughing at?” Their gazes snapped to Paige, and then to each other, considering each other guiltily before breaking into giggles again. 

 

“Oh, my god, you two are the worst. C’mon, tell me. Before Amilyn gets back.” Paige shook her head, her brown eyes wrinkling as she smiled.

 

“We’re talking about one Ben Solo, who Rey has wrapped around her little finger.” Rose grinned, laughing at Rey’s gentle swat.

 

“Amilyn did mention that you managed to tame the beast long enough to get a photo spread. Good job,” the older Tico nodded approvingly. Where Rose was playful, Paige was a bit more serious, something possibly to be attributed to being a high fashion model, where smiling was rarely seen.

 

“For the record, he is not wrapped around my little finger. I just made him listen for once,” Rey muttered, watching Paige sip her mimosa. The woman set the champagne flute down, glancing back, as if to check to see if Amilyn was approaching, if the conversation would have to return to the fairer sex, possible engagements or some other tasty tidbit of gossip. 

 

“Maybe so, but let’s be honest, if you were able to make  _ Ben Solo  _ of all people listen, there’s at least a hundred people who would beg you to bottle your secret and sell it, including his own parents. That’s practically witchcraft, and you have the power.” Paige grinned, and Rey nearly reeled back with surprise at the flash of white teeth. “You’re the most powerful woman on the Upper East Side right now, because you got him to heel.”

 

“I don’t know if you’re encouraging me to go after him, or if you want me to offer my services to his family,” Rey remarked dryly, reaching for her bloody mary, wondering if the vodka could overpower the tomato juice for just a moment, long enough for her to survive this conversation.

 

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Paige simpered, considering her own plate, scooping up a forkful of eggs. “You need to get laid, my dear-- we both know it’s been a while since you’ve been between the sheets, and you might as well get some before your schedule gets busy. That photoshoot you did yesterday? Well, if you weren’t on the map already, you’re about to be.”

 

“And who knows?” Rose rejoined, patting Rey’s hand, “Maybe he isn’t so bad when he isn’t being a menace to high society.”

 

“Well, I can’t promise to think about it, but thank you for those odd images of Ben Solo. I appreciate it  _ so  _ much.” Rey rolled her eyes, wondering why her heart was beating so loud in her ears, why the back of her neck was hot with embarrassment. She blamed it on the alcohol for the moment, switching over to her ice water as Amilyn returned, apologizing with a smile at her tardiness, explaining that she was just chatting with Senator Mothma.

 

In a moment, the focus was off her and the chatter was back in full force, and Rey took solace in it for a moment. Ben Solo didn’t pay for anything himself, so she wasn’t about to let him rent out space in her head, she chided herself. So she pushed the thoughts away, giggling along with Rose now.

 

Still, she was very aware of how he seemed to be knocking at her mind’s door in that damn towel of his. Another bloody mary would take care of that, she reasoned, and so she signaled the waiter, a polite smile hopefully shielding how her stomach churned.

 

* * *

 

After brunch, Rey hadn’t gone back to her flat like she should have. Instead, she had her cab drop her off at the World Trade Center, her ascension to the  _ Vogue  _ office a quiet and lonely one.

 

It was Sunday, so no one, not even Amilyn, would be in without a good reason. She could sit at her desk and consider the results of her work yesterday in silence, the buzz of the few drinks she had at brunch warm and friendly, a truth serum to her tired head.

 

Rey didn’t know whether or not she was pleased with the results of the Solo session. Oh, she was happy that she wouldn’t have to go back, yes, thank you, but at the same time, she had to also admit that Ben Solo actually looked nice.

 

If she was a narcissist, she could-- would-- insist that that was only because of her photography skills. After all, she was sought after and revered for a reason. She went to Parsons for her degree, for heaven’s sake! She was handpicked by the goddess of photography herself, Maz Kanata, as her assistant for an internship! Surely, she was good enough to make someone like Ben Solo look as good as he did.

 

But she knew that wasn’t fully the case.

 

True, with the right posing, the right outfit, backdrop, posture and so on, she had made him look as if he had more control of his life than he apparently did. She wasn’t stupid. She had heard plenty of stories about him, his drug use, his past relationships, his parties... his tenuous grip on sobriety, his family issues, his complete and utter lack of direction in his life.

 

If there was anything that rich people loved more than money, it was rumors about each other. And she had heard plenty of rumors, half-truths and facts about the youngest Skywalker.

 

She leaned back in her office chair, considering the proofs sitting on her laptop screen, eyes following the line of his jaw, appraising and yet passive. She wasn’t in charge of editing the pieces-- that was an intern’s job. Truly, this may be her best shoot yet, something somber, dangerous, supreme lurking in the background, and she was left wondering if Solo was aware of the rawness he had let seep through in his glare.

 

It reminded her of pictures she had seen of cornered animals, wounded predators. He wasn’t baring his teeth, but she could see the same look in Ben’s face, something feral, terrifying… and sensual.

 

“Ah, yes.” Rey murmured to herself, feeling her mouth tug up in a smile.  _ Vogue _ ’s audience would surely need a fainting couch and smelling salts: Ben Solo was going to knock more than a few people dead with his daddy eyes, his Big Bad Wolf persona. She fingered the pendent of her necklace, thinking, wondering if it was only her cheeks growing warm or if the warmth was slipping further down.

 

No, that wouldn’t do.

 

True, she could acknowledge that he was handsome, attractive, that maybe he could sway her hormones to react, her heart rate to spike. She could acknowledge that she had to keep herself behind her camera instead of in front of it with him, touching and adjusting him. He had responded so well to her touch, and Paige was right: she did feel pretty fucking powerful because of it.

 

But to admit any of that would be admitting defeat. She had her own battles to wage, and she certainly didn’t have time to win Ben Solo’s war for him. 

 

He was everything that she couldn’t stand: carelessness, recklessness, a “devil may care but I sure as hell don’t” air to him. He lived for feeling as much as he could, for taking as many risks as he could find, to take Life by its lapels and to shake it until it couldn’t offer him anything more.

 

The last people she knew to do that were her parents, and where were they? Dead, in a joint grave plot after getting fished out of the Hudson River after a drunk drive plunged them off the George Washington Bridge. Because they wanted to go to Atlantic City instead of spending New Year’s with their daughter. 

 

Rey grit her teeth, willed herself not to cry. It wasn’t her fault they were gone. But it was certainly their fault that she lived as precisely as she did. That she didn’t trust being behind the wheel of a car at any point.

 

She knew all about carelessness and the fragility of life, and she wanted nothing to do with it, thank you very much. 

 

She leaned forward on her hands, considering Solo’s face. He certainly looked better than he did when she had last seen him. Oh, he didn’t remember-- she hadn’t expected him to-- seeing that he was blitzed out his mind at the time.

 

**....**

She was 23, and it was the night of his DUI arrest. Of course, she hadn’t known that at the time; at the time, she was rather into her own little sphere, and was only out at a club to celebrate graduation from Parsons with Rose and some other rich kids. 

 

They knew Ben Solo was at the club long before they made it through the door, bypassing several crying girls insisting to get in, that they were Ben Solo’s girlfriends. At the time, her lip curled in disgust at being so wrapped around a man that to be separated was to be wounded, but then she had photographed Bazine, one of Solo’s many girls back in the day, and heard her talk about her doomed romance.

 

Apparently, Ben had a tendency to use girls like a dying man would use oxygen, and in the process, had cultivated some very co-dependent and unhealthy bonds. That alone would have anyone wary, but wariness usually doesn’t keep rich kids away from bad things for too long. 

 

Still, while her friends mooched off of Solo’s friends and champagne, Rey slipped out.  She squinted, trying to remember why now, and then it hit her with a bang and a crash.  That’s right: she went out for a smoke break.

 

She couldn’t remember how long she had been out there-- she maybe chain smoked, too bored with the night’s plans, having to be the responsible one-- but she remembered how  _he_ stumbled out, bleary eyed, his shirt askew. In the streetlights, the flashing neon lights outside the club, she could see the formation of a hickey on his neck, and she rolled her eyes, content with puffing on.

 

“Hey, hey! Valet-- ge’me my car.” She tensed at the slurred command, tensed even more at the valet’s hushed agreement, rushing away, hopeful for another tip. 

 

She never had been nosy, but she also prided herself on not just being a bystander, so she spoke:

 

"You shouldn't drive like that."

 

He whirled around, his eyes wide but blood-shot, the stubble of a five o’clock shadow along his cheeks and chin. He seems gaunt in her memory, but still towered over her. Still, he regarded her almost thoughtfully before shaking his head at her. 

 

"Excuse me if I don't listen to another addict, Miss Conscience." He turned away then, the spring night still a bit cold, but she doubts he’s shivering from the chill as he mutters to himself that the drugs are hitting him weird, that he is seeing people from his past.

 

"You have powder on your nose and you are stumbling. It's common sense to not drive," she tapped her cigarette ash, leaned against the brick wall as she scoffed. Still, his dark eyes found her, and his smirk had her on the defense, tossing her head as she mutters, "I only smoke to keep my hands busy."

 

"You're still addicted to cancer sticks. At least I'm having fun while killing myself." He waved her off, and in that moment, it had struck her how much of a child she still was, being ignored as she was. She had already felt ridiculous in the tight party dress Rose had coaxed her into, and for this idiot to brush off her concern was the straw that broke her.

 

She turned away then, huffing to herself, and she almost missed his mutter:

 

"Besides, what does it matter? No one gives a shit about anyone."

 

"I'm sure your friends will miss you if you die in a car crash." She didn’t know if that was true--given what she had seen in the gossip rags, she could at least guess that his funeral will be a large one, plenty of guests and mourners. He had plenty of friends, right?

 

He laughed at that, his head tossing back with the sound, a hearty sound that seemed like it shouldn’t come from this worn body. He looked at her, his eyes crinkling with a grin, as if she made the world’s best joke.  "No, they'll miss a wallet. Then they'll find another loaded bitch and move on."

 

The valet returned then, murmuring some apology, but Ben waved that off too. He came close to her then, too close, a breath apart, and she had nearly recoiled, unsure what he wanted. To look at her? A kiss? Her wallet?

 

None of those things, she remembers now with a smile. He stole her cigarette, taking a long drag before stamping it out. She had watched him smear the black ash and filter into the pavement, and he had looked up, met her eyes, smirked. "Take it from me. Quit now. You're too pretty for wrinkles."

 

She can’t remember if she replied, told him to mind his own, only that his taillights glowed red in the night as he drove off, the car jerking erratically every so often.

 

The next day, she threw out the rest of the pack when the news of his DUI woke her up on her radio alarm clock.

 

**......**

 

Rey leaned back now, shutting her laptop with a snap and pushing herself up from her chair. Maybe he had gotten better since then-- she remembered the coverage of his rehab stint, just as he probably was familiar with her other work as a photographer, and he certainly looked better now than he had then.

 

Still, there was too much risk to calculate when it came to him. And so she left that behind at her desk with the work laptop and the proofs, the elevator carrying her to the ground floor quickly. In a moment, she would be hailing a cab, returning home, to safety, to sanctuary. 

 

Somewhere that Ben Solo wasn’t welcome, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t sway her.

 

She still dreamed of him though, his kiss warm on her lips on the sidewalk outside that damn club. She’d wake up in twisted and soaked sheets-- and would never admit it.

 

After all, that, too, was a risk.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

As a general rule, when he was interested in a woman, Ben Solo did not stalk. He did not gather intel, he did not ask friends, family or staff for help. He did not arrange to “accidentally” run into anyone.

 

However, it was Tuesday following the photoshoot with Rey Kenobi, and he was about to be guilty of doing each and every thing that he never did when interested in the opposite sex. His driver Kay had put up the divider between himself and his employer in the sleek black town car as they paused in the midday New York traffic, and Ben could only presume it was to avoid a continuing conversation (or perhaps monologue) about the photographer.

 

Really, he didn’t blame his driver for being annoyed. He would be annoyed with himself too.

 

He could blame his addictive personality for latching onto the idea of Rey Kenobi and attempting to run full-on at the idea of pursuing her. That probably wasn’t fair to his past addictions though, because this one could become all-consuming if she paid him any bit of mind. He had been strung out on coke before-- heaven help him if he was strung out on the first woman who had told him no.

 

He was trying to be smart about things, really. He was attempting to approach this infatuation as normally as he could. He had spent all of Sunday poring through anything he could find about her on the internet until he felt like a thorough creep and practically had her Instagram feed printed on the back of his eyelids.

 

(He could criticize the number of brunch pictures the woman had, but as someone who had too many pictures of him partying on the internet, he had learned not to throw stones at glass houses. Besides, maybe it was a bit endearing how passionate she was about food. He added looking into a cooking class to his nonexistent to-do list.)

 

He had actually called his mother that night too, a development that surely surprised the both of them, especially seeing that his supposed saint of a mother was used to jumping into crisis mode when he called. Needless to say, he could only guess that she felt out of her depth when he called wanting to talk about a _girl._ Specifically, _the girl,_ the one he found out his family was keeping to themselves for whatever reason.

 

Leia had voiced her disbelief on the phone, saying something along the lines of “Your feelings won’t last. Just wait a week, she’ll be out of your system.”

 

Ben had told his mother that she was wrong plenty of times before. This was one of the times he knew that she truly was wrong.

 

Knowing his mother, she probably contacted a private investigator to look into Rey Kenobi out of curiosity at his passionate response. He was happy that he wasn’t that far gone to have thought of doing that, though he was sure his mother would find some way to bring up Kenobi’s credit score and any less than stellar grade the woman got in middle school. (After all, the only Skywalker who had any subtlety was his uncle, and even then, that was doubtful. The family was about as even-keeled as the cast of characters in a Tennessee Williams’ play.)

 

And of course, this wouldn’t be a Ben Solo production without the employ of his trusty sidekick, Armitage Hux. Or at least, that was how it would usually go, the man who played Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote usually sighing before smoothing the way for him.

 

However, this time, Armitage had laughed in his face. Hysterically. Loudly. Hard enough that the man was wheezing, his face as red as his hair as he cried. Needless to say, it was a very awkward start to a Monday Facetime conversation.

 

“Ben, I don’t think I can tell you this firmly enough: she does not like you,” Armitage had explained once he had regained his composure, still chuckling as he wiped tears. In the background, Ben could hear a secretary nervously ask if Armitage was alright, only to be waved off.

 

He sighed, drumming his fingers on the arm of his new couch, his apartment cleaner as it had ever been, as if he was expecting a visit from his mother, or a certain photographer. He’d never say which.

 

“I’m very aware that she _thinks_ she doesn’t like me. All I’m asking is that you help arrange a meeting between her and I so I can prove her wrong.”

 

“It’s not that simple, mate.” Armitage was serious now, frowning at him from the screen, shaking his head empathetically. “She hates messes--”

 

“I’ll have you know that I’ve had my place professionally cleaned since she was last here.”

 

“Not like that, you idiot,” Armitage sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a Ben-induced headache. Ben frowned at the gesture.

 

“She isn’t the type of girl to look at a man and say ‘I can fix him!’ She is not like 95% of your past relationships-- which you yourself have admitted that they were less relationships and more like in-home therapy, which we do not have time to unpack. She is a fully fledged woman with her own agenda and does not have time to play clean up,” Armitage leaned on his hand and grimaced.

 

“Sorry, mate. You blew it already.”

 

“I have not. Every woman likes a redemption story,” Ben muttered, peering at his phone suspiciously now. “Are you only saying what you’re saying because you’re interested in her?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Ben-- it’s barely been four months since I and Gwen split…”

 

“Yeah, and you have _eyes._ And she invited _you_ to tea,” Ben growled, suddenly regretting his words as a grin slowly stretched on Armitage’s face.

 

“Well, well, well. Someone is _thoroughly_ jealous, isn’t he?” Ben growled again, eliciting a peal of laughter from Armitage. “I’ve told you before: you really shouldn’t eavesdrop. It’ll only get your feelings hurt.”

 

“My feelings aren’t hurt. I don’t even like tea,” Ben muttered, ignoring how his friend rolled his eyes. “Besides, I called dibs on her.”

 

“A sentiment she definitely won’t appreciate, but your secret is safe with me.” Armitage shook his head again, glancing away from his phone. “My 2 o’clock is here. We can talk about this later, but as of now, I cannot agree to help you with a clear conscience. Or confidence that a certain photographer wouldn’t kill me and then take pictures of it for her next shoot.”

 

“Coward,” Ben grinned now, the image of Rey treating someone as harshly as she treated him amusing.

 

“Says the guy who lost his heart and balls to the same woman who called him a tortoise’s rectum,” Armitage remarked dryly, ending the call then, Ben’s mouth barely opening to correct him.

 

Well. He got him there.

 

However, Ben had the upper hand again, he was sure. After all, that was yesterday, Monday. Today was Tuesday, the day that Armitage just so happened to agree to afternoon tea with Miss Kenobi.

 

The fact that his driver was pulling up to the Baccarat Hotel in midtown at 4:05 p.m. and he had a bouquet of roses in his lap...well, that was just happenstance. He was very aware that no one would buy that, but his own grandfather had done worst for love, including but not limited to interrupting a Senate filibuster to propose.

 

If his grandfather survived the resulting upbraiding _and_ have his proposal accepted, Ben was fairly confident that he would do just fine at an afternoon tea.

 

Of course, he had been wrong before. Still, he grinned to himself when Kay announced that they had arrived, flicked a bit of lint off of his blazer, and stepped out of the car, ignoring any wide-eye stares thrown his way.

 

_Showtime._

 

* * *

 

 

Tuesdays were always good days for Rey Kenobi. Tuesdays meant that she had survived the start of another weekly news cycle at Vogue and that she could ride the wave of activity until her next shoot, her next project.  She had no meetings on Tuesdays unless it was time for the fall issue, and she often could leave work a bit early for her own social life.

 

Today, she counted herself as extra lucky, the universe seemingly smiling at her today. She had been greeted to a round of applause at the office when she had wandered past the editorial meeting, had received a personal note of congratulations from her old mentor, Maz, and had managed to snag the last Boston Creme donut from the cafe on her way into the office this morning.

 

All of that, added to a good night’s sleep and a wonderful outfit (her go-to green dress, pretty and chic and flattering, no matter the season), had her all smiles when she met Armitage in the grand salon of the Baccarat Hotel for high tea.

 

Sure, Amilyn had raised an eyebrow when Rey had announced that she was going to tea with the investment banker, but she hadn’t said anything. Still, Rey wondered for a moment at the look as she accepted Armitage’s friendly kiss to her cheeks.

 

Did her godmother expect her to say that she was meeting with Ben Solo, disaster everywhere except for in front of her camera? As if.

 

“Is it a coincidence that you invited me to tea on a Tuesday?” Armitage teased her as he helped her into her seat, a maitre d setting a preliminary tea service in front of them, popping the champagne to fill their glasses before whisking the bottle away.

 

“Armitage, you’ve heard me talk about it enough that you know it’s not,” she chided, grinned back, turning her eyes to the tea menu and letting him set the pace of chatter. Every so often, the maitre d would return, whisking things away and into place as the tea progressed.

 

Rey plucked up a scone, and after smearing it with the heavy Devonshire cream, took a bite, letting her eyes sink shut in appreciation as she chewed, Armitage’s voice a pleasant lull in her ears, his tease buzzing in her brain.

 

She did not believe in coincidence. True, perhaps she believed in the intervention of fate, the will of the universe-- but as such, everything happens for a reason. There never was a “chance” meeting, or an accidental being in a certain place at a certain time for her.

 

And honestly, seeing someone like Ben Solo _conveniently_ walk through the Baccarat doors with an armful of red roses… well, it bolstered her belief.

 

“Oh, my god,” she muttered, her smile immediately flickering out, despite the charming joke Armitage had just made, and as he looked over his shoulder, trying to figure out what she could have seen, she downed the entirety of her champagne flute and discreetly reached for his.

 

It was a shame that the Prince of Wales tea menu only came with a glass of champagne with tea, and not half a bottle as the Tsar Nicholas II tea menu, but she owed that to the universe being a cruel mistress at times. Armitage didn’t seem to notice his missing glass of bubbly, nor did he comment on how Rey’s cheeks bulged just a bit after shoving the rest of her scone into her mouth to prevent another curse.

 

“I swear, Reyna, I did not invite him-- I would never…” He trailed off as she flicked her hand at him, shaking her head, her eyes glued to the maitre d who now stepped in Solo’s path and at least slowed him a bit.

 

Not enough, however, the man now looming over them with a rakish grin, and Rey’s brow furrowed. Of course, he didn’t have the manners to at least pretend that it _was_ a coincidence.

 

“The monsieur says he is with you?” The poor maitre d was at Ben’s elbow, looking all too flustered for the scenario. Rey could only assume that, like the rest of the city, the poor man was well aware of the messes Ben Solo could leave behind him and most likely did not want to be responsible for cleaning up after such an ordeal.

 

“He’s not staying--” “In a manner of speaking, yes--” Armitage pinked as his words collided with Rey’s, and her answering glare was fierce on him before she forced herself to soften and turn to the maitre d.

 

“He won’t be staying _for long_ ,” she corrected, raising an eyebrow at Ben, who hadn’t stopped smiling, damn him, since he had walked in.

 

“Oui, mademoiselle,” The maitre d nodded, turning to Ben, his voice hardly concealing a quiver. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

 

“I’ll just have a cup of earl gray, with lemon on the side,” Ben grinned, and it was truly a wonder that the maitre d didn’t collapse from gratitude, about to scurry off, when Armitage spoke up.

 

“He doesn’t need the glass of champagne.” Armitage shot Ben a look, the other man seemingly ignoring his friend in favor for Rey, his brown eyes seeming to flick around her face, as if to take in every last detail before she inevitably had him thrown out. She refused to meet his eyes, instead looking to the maitre d, who looked desperate to escape.

 

“If you could bring the rest of the bottle back to the table, I would appreciate that.”

 

“Reyna, he really doesn’t need access to the whole bottle…”Armitage muttered, Rey turning to look at him, perhaps a touch cold.

 

“I didn’t say the bottle would be for him.” With that, she smiled at the maitre d and he scurried off, leaving Ben standing alongside the table.

 

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Ben asked, widening his eyes in faux innocence, the replying glares withering and unamused. Still, he pushed on, holding out the bouquet to Rey. “For you, Miss Kenobi.”

 

“Oh, for me? You shouldn’t have!” She muttered dryly, accepting the flowers only to drop them unceremoniously on the floor next to her chair. Ben glanced at the pile of stems and petals that she was now making as she ground her foot into the bouquet, her eyes still on him. When she had finished, she daintily lifted her foot and crossed her legs.

 

“Oops,” she murmured, watching a smirk seemingly struggle to appear on Ben’s neutral face, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

 

“I suppose it was a good thing that I had the thorns snipped off, Miss Kenobi.”

 

“Yes, that was rather considerate of you, Mr. Solo. I suppose I can thank you for something after all.”

 

A cell phone rang, and Rey’s eyes snapped across the table to Armitage, who flushed now, apologetic. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

 

“By all means,” Ben stepped aside, sweeping his arm out as if to point the way to the lobby. Armitage grimaced at him before glancing at Rey, frowning.

 

“This will only take a moment, I swear.”

 

“Take your time, Armitage. I need to have a chat with Mr. Solo, anyways.” Armitage looked between her and Ben, and then back again, before shaking his head and retreating, answering the call on the final ring with a hurried greeting.

 

As he did, Ben sunk into Armitage’s seat with a content smile, accepting his empty tea cup, lemon delicately on the saucer, with a grin from the maitre d. The server cautiously smiled back before setting the champagne bottle next to Rey.

 

“Shall I pour it, miss?”

 

“No, but thank you. I think I will be drinking it straight from the bottle.” The maitre d blinked at her, and she sighed, reaching for her purse and retrieving a crisp $100 bill. “Merci, monsieur.”

 

She took a pull from the bottle, holding up a finger at Ben, who seemed fully content to stare at her in bemusement as she took her drink. In a moment, she was setting the bottle down, wiping at her lips, not caring about the slight smear of her lipstick on the back of her hand.

 

“Could you pass the tea, Reyna dear?” He asked, and she scowled at him.

 

“No, Mr. Solo, you can do that yourself. It is the least that you can do, considering your intrusion,” she hissed. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, merely shrugging before leaning forward, carefully plucking the tea strainer from Armitage’s abandoned cup.

 

He glanced up at her for a moment as he reached for the tea kettle, seemingly snorting despite himself. “Really, Rey, stop looking at me like that. I may be a complete ass, but rest assured I can put a cup of tea together.”

 

“At least your limited manners did not fail you there,” she sniffed, perturbed as he seemed to smile around the lip of his teacup as he sipped now.

 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself. I don’t know what gave you the _slightest_ idea that you would be welcome to an occasion you were purposely not invited to, but let me tell you how gravely you were mistaken, Mr. Solo--” Rey found herself cut short by a wave of Ben’s left hand, his right supporting his chin as he leaned on the arm of his chair.

 

“While I’m sure there is a litany of ways I’ve offended you, maybe even down to the color of my shoes,” he chuckled when her eyes reluctantly glanced at his shoes, the black leather polished and inoffensive, “I didn’t come here to purposely upset you, or interrupt your chat with Armitage.”

 

“Really?” She muttered, crossing her arms and staring at him until he sighed, raising his hands in mock surrender.

 

“Perhaps the latter, but not the former. If I can be absolutely candid, Rey, you intrigue me--”

 

“And you may remain that way, at a respectable distance from me.” In a moment, she was out of her chair, swiping the heels of her booties through the rose petals once more out of spite. Soon, she was over Ben, peering down into his face, her nose barely inches from his as she snarled at him:

 

“I do not like you, Ben Solo. Do not mistake any smile of mine as something for your benefit. Our business is quite finished, and I can promise you that I will not think of you a moment more after I walk out of this hotel. Do you understand?”

 

He blinked at her slowly, and suddenly she found herself tugged close, his lips pressed to her ear, his voice low, his breath hot. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. You feel it too, don’t you?”

 

She reeled back, all but baring her teeth at him, but he looked at her calmly, a hint of a smile tinging his next words: “Ah. You do.”

 

With that, he turned his attention back to his tea, taking another sip as she gaped at him. She turned on her heel, heart beating hard in her chest, and headed for the door. She heard Armitage and the maitre d calling after her, but in a moment, she was bursting onto the street, raising her hand up to hail a cab. Her purse was clutched firmly in her hand, and she thanked the universe that she did not have to return in shame, that she had everything she needed.

 

No more chance encounters with Ben Solo. He could pay someone else’s bill for once.

  


Back in the hotel, across the table from Ben, Rey’s phone trilled. The man paused, eyebrow raising, and then the device trilled again. A smile was slow to materialize, but it did, the man chuckling to himself.

 

Oh, she was going to _hate_ him when he returned it tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love and support! I'm having so much fun with this story!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! I so wasn't expecting the reaction to the story, and I'm so happy that so many of you enjoy it so much! Every comment and kudo is appreciated and loved, and I am so so so grateful that you're reading. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Amilyn Holdo was hardly someone you could call a pushover. She had been in the journalism business since she was 22, and in her 30 years of experience, she had seen publications fold and editors fall, all because they kept trying to cater to internal politics instead of the ever changing demand and lost sight of the goals of publishing. 

 

In contrast, she had been at Vogue’s helm for twenty years now, and she always kept her sight fixed forward, frequently telling her staff, “No goals, only the big picture.” It seemed that the magazine flourished under that directive, remaining the authority on all things fashionable, culturally relevant and just out-and-out important. 

 

Other publications begged her to be their coverstar, she was in charge of the Met Gala, the unofficial beginning of high society summer, and she could make or break a career with a disapproving nod. She wasn’t just an authority-- she was  _ the  _ authority, prophet (or goddess, depending who you asked) responsible for publishing what was known as the fashionista’s bible. 

 

As such, not only did Amilyn understand the word “no”-- she used it with panache. Her goddaughter was fond of telling dinner guests of the time that Amilyn had told Marc Jacobs himself that he could kiss her lily-white ass all he wanted, but she wouldn’t stay more than 20 minutes at his fashion show’s after party. That story was usually followed by Amilyn insisting that she only spoke thusly because it was a school night for Reyna and there was a strict schedule to adhere to…. But she digressed. 

 

Either way, she knew exactly what she wanted, what others needed, and how to get optimal results. If it made her all stick and no carrot, so be it, but she only had to point to her two greatest accomplishments-- her goddaughter and her magazine-- to show you that her system worked.

 

So no, it was not her idea to be meeting with Leia Organa-Solo, nee Skywalker, at 8:30 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, two hours after the Ben Solo photoshoot had dropped online. 

 

She had much better things to do, like check in with Reyna (who was remarkably silent this morning, not even texting back when informed that the photo spread was live), or to go terrorize the fashion closet interns (her idea of fun, since everyone expected her to be like her fictional counterpart in “The Devil Wears Prada”). Instead, she sat across from the Skywalker matriarch, feeling as if she was on both sides of the table at a parent-teacher conference, as if she was a PTA mother who had to explain just why her little Reyna had slapped Ben Solo after he pulled her pigtails.

 

But again, she digressed. 

 

Seeing that the family was the center of the upcoming issue, Amilyn had to leave her door open for Leia, a woman she knew more via reputation than personal experience. Their relationship could be said to be built on respect-- both of them were savvy enough to say as much to the tabloids-- but the editor was ready to put her foot down if need be.

 

It was fortunate that photoshoot with Ben Solo went well enough, but Amilyn could see in the curve up Leia’s raised eyebrow, the careful stare that was sweeping her face, reading every fine wrinkle and microexpression, trying to find her eyes behind her iconic sunglasses, that the woman had come to barter for something more.

 

Leia finally spoke, the woman straightening up with a cough, her smile tight-lipped but cordial. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything you had going this morning, Ms. Holdo. I just wanted to stop in and see how things were faring for you and yours.”

 

“Please, call me Amilyn. And really, it was no trouble.” She tilted her head slightly, her lips mimicking the smile. “Everything is going well, as usual, although one of my photographers is still without a camera.” 

 

To her credit, Leia chuckled, shaking her head. “Yes, well, Ben apologizes for that little mess that he made. He’s grateful that you took a second chance and sent Reyna over.”

 

“Is he? Sorry, I mean. I must have missed his visit when he came to tell me personally.” Amilyn grinned, perhaps baring her teeth just a smidge. If there was anything that she couldn’t respect, it was someone being excused from responsibility. She had made sure to raise Rey with the concept of consequences, and as a result, the young woman had a good head on her shoulder, could very well be poised to take her place one day.

 

Ben Solo, on the other hand, had no such upbringing. Amilyn couldn’t blame him fully, which is why she turned her gaze to his mother, who remained smiling, even if there was a hard edge to her eyes now. 

 

“I’m sure a delivery of flowers from him will be in later today,” Leia said simply, and Amilyn shook her head.

 

“Of course. If you want, I can personally pick the bouquet that I want now so that, when  _ you  _ order it, I may still keep it on my desk.” 

 

The look that prompted was cold but a bit amused, the woman keeping her voice even. “Amilyn.”

 

“Leia.” The two stared at each other for a long moment, and then Leia sighed, shifted her gaze down. 

 

“We are getting nowhere.” She glanced up, her mouth pursed. “So why don’t we sit crooked and talk straight, hmm?”

 

“Please, by all means.” Amilyn lifted her hand, as if to invite the matriarch to take the floor.

 

“My son is the worst behaved man this side of Manhattan--”

 

“I would possibly say on the Eastern seaboard, but for simplicity, we can confine it to the city,” Leia shot her a look and she feigned surprise, widening her eyes behind her sunglasses. “Did I say that out loud? My mistake. Continue, Ms. Solo.”

 

“Please, call me Leia.” Her tone was sharp, but then she took a deep breath, fixed Amilyn with a look. “I am planning on running for senator in the upcoming election.”

 

“Congratulations,” Amilyn noted dryly, but Leia paid her no mind, pushing on.

 

“I’m hoping the articles being run in your magazine will be a good stepping stone to endearing myself and my family to the public.” The woman paused, seemingly surprised by the lack of comment from across the desk. She sighed as the editor raised an eyebrow, settled her chin on her hand as if bored.

 

“My son...well, he is a mess. Partially because of his very lax childhood and perhaps in part because he was spoiled in lieu of parenting….”

 

“You mean that he is still spoiled. Don’t forget, Ms. Solo, this isn’t the  _ first  _ time he’s given a publication fits.” She plucked her sunglasses from the bridge of her nose, leaned forward on the desk. “This is, however, the first time that you had me send my own goddaughter into a proverbial shitshow.”

 

“From what I’ve seen, their partnership was fruitful. How is my son’s photo spread doing on your social media platforms?” Leia replied, settling back in her chair, a self-satisfied simper settling on her cheeks.

 

Amilyn grit her teeth. The woman had her there. She barely had to look at her open laptop to see the social engagement numbers soar, to see the positive comments, the building interest in his interview, in any behind the scenes material that could be snapped up. 

 

Still, she instead glanced at her nails, as if her perfect cuticles interested her more than her content. “It isn’t doing you well enough to get you elected next fall, Ms. Solo.”

 

“Amilyn.” The two looked at each other again, and Leia now stood, bracing a hand on the glass-topped desk before her. “What I want to do is propose a partnership.”

 

“It would be unethical for Vogue to be anything but objective when it comes to politics--” Amilyn frowned at Leia’s interrupting laugh, her shaking head.

 

“You misunderstand me. I’m not asking for support for me. I’m asking for help with Benjamin.”

 

Amilyn blinked once, twice, and then again, her brow furrowing, realization setting in. “Oh, hell no.”

 

“What do you mean, no--” The question had barely left Leia’s gaping mouth when the private office’s door flung open, both women jerking their heads in surprise at the sound of the door hitting the wall. 

 

“Auntie Amilyn-- oh my god, I am so sorry-- I woke up late because my old alarm clock doesn’t work and I don’t have my phone, so I missed your message about the photo spread going live and I had the worst night and morning. You will never believe what that asshole Solo did to me last night, I swear to god--” Rey was halfway in the room before she looked up, and she only did so at her godmother’s strangled gasp. 

 

In a word, Rey was dishevelled. In a few, she looked like she had been hit by a truck carrying last season’s clearance rack rejects, her eyes wide but underlined with sleeplessness, her hair escaping her up-do, her lipstick barely applied.

 

Even so, Leia grinned, taking advantage of the flustered silence that now permeated the space, the woman approaching Rey. “My dear, how  _ are  _ you? You look positively radiant--”

 

“Reyna, I’m sure you’ve already met, but this is Satan.” Amilyn murmured sourly, rising from her seat and coming around her desk, stepping between her goddaughter and Leia. “You know her best by her son, the spawn of Satan.”

 

“I… am missing something, aren’t I?” Rey asked, her murmur quiet as she stepped back, blinking as if she had just woken up.

 

“Your godmother is being a tad bit dramatic, my dear. We were just talking about you working with Ben again.” Leia beamed at Rey from over Amilyn’s shoulder, ignoring the answering growl from the editor.

 

“I  _ believe _ you were implying that Rey would babysit your son-- who is 33, may I remind you-- so you can be elected to the Senate.” Amilyn whirled on Leia, scowling. “Of all the selfish requests that have been made in this office, this one certainly takes the cake, Ms. Solo.”

 

“What would we get out of it?”

 

Rey’s voice was smooth, unbothered, unaffected even, her frame still as she fixed the two women before her with a look, her right hand clasping onto her left wrist to fidget with her watch. 

 

Leia faltered and gaped at Rey, as if surprised that she was making it this far into her pitch, as if she hadn’t considered the cost of such a service. “Well...money, of course.” 

 

Rey laughed outright at the answer, derision dripping from the sound. “I have plenty of that, Ms. Solo, and there isn’t enough money in the world to make your son tolerable enough.” 

 

The young woman crossed her arms, pretending to be deep in thought as she delicately tapped at her chin, humming. “Considering that he ambushed an afternoon tea yesterday, harassed myself and Armitage Hux-- who, if memory serves, is his babysitter-- and is currently holding my phone hostage, which I only learned after emailing him  _ like a heathen _ , I feel that I can say that your son is the sorriest case in New York, and not even Professor Higgins from ‘My Fair Lady’ could make him fit for polite society.”

 

“And here I thought I was somewhat charming yesterday,” a low rumble answered from the doorway. Ben grinned almost sheepishly at the three women who turned only to glare at him, raising his hands as if to show that he was unarmed.

 

In a moment, he was joining the odd group, nodding politely at Amilyn before considering his mother. “I didn’t realize that you follow up after your P.I. brings the findings to you, mother. Was Reyna that interesting?”

 

Leia’s face reddened, avoiding Amilyn’s glare. “You had my goddaughter  _ privately investigated?! _ ”

 

“I suppose, in my mother’s defense, Reyna was only investigated because I unwisely confessed to an attraction.” He shrugged carelessly, offering a lazy grin to Rey. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

 

She glared at him, jutting her hand out between them, palm up and open. “Phone. Now.”

 

Rey snatched her iPhone from Ben’s hand the second he offered it, scrutinizing the screen, flicking through every missed notification, as if to see if he had tampered with it. In a moment, she was sighing, relieved, but it was a quickly fading thing, her fierce gaze back on the group before her.

 

“If you need me, Auntie, I will be in my office, drafting up the terms of a restraining order against Mr. Solo here.”

 

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I can still hear you.” Ben did not have many regrets when it came to his words, but as the photographer rounded on him, her smile honeyed and false, he knew the he had unequivocally, possibly irrevocably, perhaps even fatally  _ fucked up.  _

 

“Mr. Solo, if I was a more forgiving woman, I would beg your pardon, and maybe ask if you wanted to try that sentence again.” She grimaced at him, her brow furrowed murderously, hissing, “However, I am not, and never have been, so might I suggest that you get the  _ hell _ out of this building before I decide to find the sharpest object in this office and  _ castrate _ you.”

 

With that, she was turning on her heel, her strides quick and long, and headed for the door. A moment longer, and one could hear the click of her heels on the hallway’s slick wood floors, the sound almost thundering with her stomps.

 

The entire office space seemed to reverberate with the force of her slamming office door, but then it was silent. 

 

Ben let the silence rest for a beat, and then two, now glancing at the remaining two women. He huffed a sigh, and Amilyn was unsure if he was thoughtful or amused, pausing a bit longer now.

 

“Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to attempt to fix whatever mess I just exacerbated.” He looked to his mother, shaking his head. “I don’t know exactly why you’re here, but even I can read the room… I think it’s time you left, mother.”

 

Amilyn Holdo never expected to be in a scenario where Ben Solo-- prince of disaster, king of mess, the proverbial bull in the china shop-- was the reasonable Skywalker, but then she saw Leia heave a sigh, wearily nod, collecting her purse and coat without another word, departing as silently as she came. 

 

In a moment, Ben was following his mother, carefully shutting the office door behind him, and Amilyn all but collapsed in the nearest chair. Looking at the clock hanging over her desk, she cursed. 

 

It was barely 9:30 a.m., and she desperately needed a drink. For a moment, she wondered if she should call security, have Ben Solo escorted long before he made it to Rey’s office, but then she shook her head, reaching towards her desk phone, pressing the intercom button.

 

“Jessika, dear, would you mind cancelling my meetings for the day? I will be working from home and do not want to be contacted unless God himself offers an interview.”

 

The intercom crackled, her secretary hesitant on the other end.  _ “Of course, Ms. Holdo. Um, in case someone asks, what’s ailing you? A stomach bug? A cold?” _

 

“A case of the Skywalkers,” Amilyn answered dryly, letting go of the intercom button and ignoring any follow up questions, laying her head down on her desk.

 

A case of the Skywalkers, indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update ;) Enjoy!

If one had asked Rey about the state of her life prior to working with Ben Solo, she would have answered that she was perfectly content. Maybe she would avoid discussing the odd void that had taken up residence between her chest and her stomach, a loneliness, a  _ longing _ , but she would be sure to cover how she was thriving long before she touched on this odd inner sanctum.

 

Oh, what a difference a week makes.

 

Rey slumped against her office door, still feeling it vibrate from how she had thrown it shut, burying her face in her hands. What was it about Ben Solo that made it seem that her life was suddenly circling a drain, about to be sucked under by a current she couldn’t control?

 

She didn’t know, and it did worse than annoy her-- it frightened her. 

 

True, the terror didn’t compare to the morning she was told by a somber police officer that her parents weren’t coming back, that she was alone in the world, but she didn’t have anything else to really compare the feeling with. She only knew what she had done before, which was put her head down and push on, push down.

 

Push down the feelings that bubbled up like acid reflux after a too spicy meal.

 

Push down the resentment that creeped up her spine like climbing ivy, spiraled around her clenched fists, when she watched her classmates go off to their parents. 

 

Push down the lump in her throat and smile every time someone departed from her life, be it for the day or forever, her dating life less than stellar (not that anyone would believe that).

 

As a general rule, she pretended to be ice. No one bothered with ice unless to make something beautiful out of it, she figured, and so she only let a few mold her, help her, hold her. It was because of them-- Amilyn, Maz, Rose, a handful of teachers and nannies from her past life, from her life with her parents-- that she was as successful as she was.

 

Then along came Ben Solo, with his scorching smile and smoldering eyes, and suddenly she was melting faster than the wicked witch of the west. 

 

She refused to like him. There was nothing to like. Even he was aware of that fact, and it was maddening, watching him sprint at her carefully constructed walls only to bounce off.

 

He wasn’t the first man to do so-- but he was certainly the first one to shake off the pain and try  _ again. _

 

_ And again, and again, and  _ **_again._ **

 

She wasn’t sure what was going on in that dumb Roman statuesque head of his, but she knew what was going on in hers. Alarm bells were sounding, her nerves were on fire, her logic was shot.

 

He could barely help himself, and for his mother to approach her and expect her to agree to help him...it felt practically inhumane.

 

Then again, at least those expectations were somewhat clear. Leia expected Rey to sweep in, take advantage of Ben’s ill-informed feelings and fix him so that the family didn’t have to bother. Of her interaction with Leia, Rey could appreciate the clarity.

 

Knowing expectations kept her safe. She could operate within expectations. It’s what made her a dutiful goddaughter, a diligent worker, a supposedly brilliant photographer. 

 

She didn’t know what Ben expected from her. 

 

She could see the hunger in his eyes, true, but aside from that moment in the Baccarat grand salon, when he had pulled her close and rasped in her ear, he hadn’t touched her. If anything, he hadn’t conveyed any physical interest in her. So she could assume that he didn’t expect to fuck her. That was strangely comforting, even as she pushed an odd burst of vexation, of insult at the concept that he didn’t find her fuckable. 

 

_ Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that... _ She thought wryly, remembering a John Mulaney bit where he had uttered the same phrase, and she allowed herself to giggle before falling back into silence.

 

She had never treated Ben with kindness since they had met. One could maybe count the night of his DUI, when she expressed concern when others hadn’t, but she certainly didn’t count that. There was little chance that he remembered the interaction, could root infatuation in, so that wasn’t it. 

 

A gentle knock on her door had her straightening against it, and she scooted away from it, as undignified as that movement was. 

 

“Who is it?” She called, wishing to sound indignant, haughty, unbothered, but instead it plopped from her mouth like a sullen wet pebble. She grit her teeth, brought a hand to her eyes, wondered when she had begun to cry. 

 

There was a pause, and then a sheepish answer, the voice low and comforting, despite the speaker. “It’s Ben.” A pause, and then: “Y’know, the guy you want to castrate.”

 

“Go away.” She settled her back against her desk, feeling her lips form a pathetic pout, and she glanced up, towards the office light, rapidly blinking, trying to banish her tears without smudging mascara. Her body may want to cry, but she refused to mess up her eyeliner. Of the things she had going for her that morning, her expertly lined eyes were one of them, and far be it from her to go into battle with an open chink in her armor.

 

He chuckled at her words, his words soft. “You know that I can’t do that, sweetheart.” The office door cracked open, and he peeked in.

 

She snorted at him, watching his large frame attempt to be small, to be discreet as he looked around the door. “You look ridiculous.”

 

“Did you expect anything less, Miss Smarty-pants?” The door opened wider and he stepped in more fully, his hand soft against the handle as he closed it with a  _ click.  _

 

For a moment, she considered the odd role reversal-- the reckless was careful; the collected, angry. In the next moment, she was lifting her eyes to consider him, sniffling. “What do you want?”

 

“To apologize. For both myself, and my mother.” He dithered on the spot for a moment, his hands finding his pockets. “I usually don’t do this.”

 

“Please, don’t stop at my expense,” Rey muttered, shrugging indifferently at his cocked eyebrow. Still, he sighed, rocking back on the balls of his feet for a moment before planting himself down. 

 

“I’m sorry for ambushing you during teatime, and for being a complete ass every time I open my mouth.” He paused, face screwing up with thought. “I don’t know what my mother was doing this morning, but I’m sorry for that too.”

 

“Your mother was trying to get me to agree to babysit you and teach you how to be a gentleman. She wants to become senator, and apparently having a playboy as a son makes people nervous at the polls,” she murmured dolefully, glancing at her hands now. It felt odd to tell him-- she could have done so gleefully, but there was something intrinsically sad about the whole thing. 

 

“Jesus Christ. Yeah, I’m  _ definitely _ sorry for her.” He was sinking to the floor now, getting on her level, resting his back against one of her bookcases instead of in front of the door. He saw her curious gaze dart between him and the door and he nodded. “I’m an asshole, but I’m not stupid.”

 

He grinned, mirth sparking in his eyes. “If I were to block the door, you’d probably turn the tables on me anyways and hold me hostage with just the stapler on your desk.”

 

“We don’t have staplers anymore-- Conde Nast went green, and we use paper clips when we do use hard copy,” she muttered weakly, but he shrugged all the same.

 

“What I said stands. You’re a very intense woman, Miss Kenobi.”

 

“This may be the first time you called me that.” He froze at her words, his eyes meeting her with some embarrassment. No, something deeper-- shame? Did Ben Solo experience shame?

 

“Just add it to the list of reasons why I’m the worst, and need to apologize,” he sighed, looking down at his shoes. 

 

She followed his gaze, and then snorted, catching sight of the iconic red bottoms. “Leave it to you to wear Louboutins to an office.”

 

“Do you like them?” He smirked, looking down at them again with pride. His smile shrank by a molar when Rey snorted again.

 

“Yes, but they clash horribly with the rest of your outfit. I mean… look at it.” She gestured at him, hand sweeping along, up and back again, from head to toe. “You are wearing dress Louboutins to an office setting, with Balmain jeans from last season, and a Burberry cashmere sweater. Perhaps you’re comfortable, but you look like a hodge-podge, a poser, and would be laughed out of any fashion event, let alone a high society function.”

 

Ben feigned a wince, the expression cracking into a smile. “Okay, Miss Smarty-pants, so you work at a fashion magazine and have been invited to a few more events than I have.”

 

“I also help Amilyn organize the Met Gala, so I am wholly qualified to critique your ensemble.” She bit back a smile at his offended look, his scoff.

 

“Are you saying that my eclectic blend isn’t Met Gala worthy? I am shocked, Miss Kenobi.”

 

“The only theme that you would fit in that outfit would be ‘tacky’ and Amilyn would never stand for it,” Rey shot back, allowing a grin to settle on her face. 

 

He harrumphed at her, pushing her barb off with a wave of his hand. “So I’m absolutely useless in both the fashion and civility departments. It’s fine, I’m getting by on my charm.”

 

“And your parents’ money.” Ben’s brow wrinkled at the words, and Rey felt her eyebrows lift in surprise, in interest.  _ Oh. _

 

“You don’t need to remind me-- they do every other day.” He tossed a crooked smile out, as if it’d shield the bitterness simmering behind it. “Spending it is the only way it feels like I can get back at them.”

 

“That is the dumbest thing you have said thus far to me, Ben Solo, and that is saying something,” Rey muttered, her hazel eyes meeting his brown ones. He leaned forward, curious but careful to never breach the space between them. There was a smile playing at the corner of his lips, as if a few more words could tip it fully over the edge and plant it on his face. 

 

“Why does it sound as if you’re about to offer to help me, Kenobi?”

 

“Ha! You wish that I would,” she cooed, glancing up at the wall opposite of him, to the clock. 

 

The admission was quiet, but solid, said on the tail-end of a breath: “Yes, I do.” 

 

His eyes were already on her when she looked back, and she swallowed thickly.

 

“You couldn’t offer me enough money to help you,” she blurted out, and now he laughed, tossed his head back and really laughed. It was the same sound she had heard all those years before, and so she froze, wondering what she was doing.

 

“I know you don’t want money. Why would you?” His expression grew solemn, his eyes somber, and Rey’s heart jumped to her throat, the gaze familiar. Ah, that was right-- the photo shoot. She tucked the thought away as he started speaking again.

 

“I can’t offer as much as my mother, but I think I can guess what you want more.”

 

“And what’s that?” She leaned forward, ready to tell him that he was wrong, but then he looked into her eyes, and said something that should have sent her reeling back in surprise.

 

“Information about your family.” She didn’t speak, looking at him, gobsmacked, wondering if it was possible to be shot without a gun, her heart seeming to stutter in her chest in shock. He pushed on, explaining, “Armitage mentioned what happened to your parents, and… I guess curiosity got the best of me. Like it probably got the best of you. I started looking, but I couldn’t find anything…”

 

“Because there’s nothing to find,” she murmured, frowning as he shook his head. 

 

“That  _ can’t  _ be true. You know it can’t.” 

 

They fell silent then, the information sitting between them like an oddly sorted pile, the facts distributed in a way that was unfair, that was wrong, that needed to be corrected. 

 

Rey’s voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “If I help you become accepted by high society--”

 

“And my family,” he interjected, and she nodded, echoing the words back.

 

“...And your family, you’ll help me find the rest of mine?” He nodded hurriedly, slipping up to his knees, shifting closer to her now.

 

“I promise you, Reyna. I will do anything that you want me to.”

 

“I thought you already would,” she smirked, the man rolling his eyes.

 

“Within reason--but yes.” He came to rest in front of her, their knees almost touching as he settled himself back onto the floor. “I promise on my life, if you help me get my shit together, I will help you find your family.”

 

“Hey, hey, hey-- I promised to help you get in good with other rich people, not get your life together. I’m amazing, but I don’t work miracles.” She frowned at him, his smile, watching him shake his head.

 

“Whatever you say.” He stuck his hand out, and she considered it with a grimace. “Shake on it.”

 

“Fine.” She smiled sweetly at him, reaching her hand out. Before he could reach for it though, she was lifting her hand, swatting the side of his head. 

 

“That is for interrupting teatime, you Neanderthal,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she pushed herself up back onto her feet, striding to the door. “You start now.”

 

“Aren’t you still on the clock?” Ben replied, massaging his stinging ear, wondering if the woman knew how to swat someone playfully. 

 

Rey’s eyes were bright as she looked at him, grinning from the doorway. “Oh, I am. However, I know a certain fashion director who will be more than happy to sort out that mess you call an outfit.” She looked at him again, shaking her head as she chuckled. “Wearing dress Louboutins to an office. You’re hilarious, Ben Solo.”

 

She didn’t see it, but Ben grinned as Rey retreated down the hallway, her heels clicking calmly, her shoulders squared, her head high. 

 

“You actually called me ‘Ben’, Miss Smarty-pants,” he murmured, splaying his legs out, his gaze falling onto the view out of Rey’s window. Beyond them, the city bustled, teemed, worked, thrived. Soon, he was sure, he would be more than welcomed in that throng, accepted with open arms instead of talked about behind open palms.

 

It was certainly a thought he could relish for a few seconds more, the sunlight warm, the future brighter now.   
  



	7. Chapter 7

If there was something to be said about Poe Dameron, fashion director and independent designer for hire, it would range from his attention to detail, his charm, his risk-taking or his inability to lie to spare someone’s feelings. As someone who had worked with him, Rey was well aware and could vouch for each and every one of these qualities, and it was why she personally asked him to ransack Ben Solo’s wardrobe.

 

To some, it could seem like a simple request, something far beneath the stylist behind Vogue’s fashion editorials. However, Rey knew, as she lead Ben down the busy hall towards the fashion closet, that this wouldn’t be a simple request. This would be a challenge, a new Everest for him to summit.

 

And for Ben, it would be a much needed intervention, and maybe a new form of torture that the United States had yet to find cruel and unusual. She grinned at that thought, whistling loudly as they entered the large room, a sea of impeccably organized clothing racks around, above and before them. 

 

“Dameron! Are you in?” Beside her, Ben was surveying the room, his eyes seeming to bug out of his head at the sheer volume of clothes. He didn’t seem overwhelmed by the quality of clothes-- why would he be, wearing Louboutins like sneakers-- but at the quantity, as if he had forgotten during their quick trip that they were still at a fashion magazine.

 

“Is that my favorite photographer I hear?” Poe called back, emerging from a further back rack, his slightly unbuttoned dress shirt French tucked into his jeans, his Italian leather shoes soft along the floor. Instantly, Ben’s eyes were on the man’s attire, and then his own, a frown settling on his plump lips.

 

Rey ignored him, instead grinning at Poe, leaning into his pecks to her cheek. He pulled back, beaming happily at her before looking over her shoulder, brow furrowing. “And who is this, Reyna?”

 

She smiled, sweeping a hand to Ben. “Ben Solo, your newest challenge and client.” 

 

Poe raised a well-groomed eyebrow at Ben, glanced at his ensemble and sighed, not bothering to extend his hand to shake. “And here I thought the worst crime in fashion history was Versace’s assassination, but here I find myself…”

 

He let the words drift for a moment, wincing at the wrinkle of Ben’s sweater, before reeling them back in, “... _ unpleasantly  _ mistaken.”

 

Ben looked down at his clothes, his frown deepening. “Are they really that bad? I thought they looked fine.” 

 

Rey merely smiled, hearing Poe scoff next to her. “Oh, dear, sweet, merciful Lord. This is already worse than I thought. This is an all hands on deck situation, isn’t it?”

 

He barely waited for an answer, turning to yell instead. “Kaydel! Put down the Dior, we have an emergency!”

 

Really, it was a dream come true seeing the blonde head of Poe’s assistant pop up from another aisle of clothes, and Rey had to quell a cackle at Ben’s bemused look. It was a particularly lucky that her godmother was out of the office for the rest of the day and that the fashion experts at her disposal. Suddenly, Rey was confident that she could at least make Ben Solo look the part of a gentleman, watching Kaydel and Poe circling the poor man like hungry sharks. 

 

Perhaps she should have warned Solo of Poe and his personality before dispatching the two of them back to Ben’s apartment in a shared cab, but really, she was still sore from the night before. The teatime interruption had cost her several missed scones with Devonshire cream, her phone and her dignity, so if Poe Dameron dragged Ben around the block and back again for his mess of an outfit…

 

Really, it wasn’t her problem.

 

With Ben gone from the office, she hopefully could settle in and work for a few hours before she was inevitably called to break up a Solo and Dameron skirmish. She was a bit tempted to put her phone on silence and lock it in her desk drawer for sanity’s sake, but she kept it on vibrate, compromising by laying it face down on her desk.

 

For an hour and 53 minutes, she worked in blissful solitude, peeking every so often at the climbing number of views, interactions and comments on Vogue’s social media regarding Ben’s photoshoot. In the silence of her office, she congratulated herself, sparing a smile down to the unreleased photos, patiently waiting their turn in the public folder on the magazine’s server.

 

In a moment, she was clicking on her laptop’s recycle bin, to the various outtakes that she had moved to the computer’s trash on Saturday night, after she had uploaded her work to her drive, arbitrarily wading through the ones she would keep, the ones she wouldn’t. 

 

She lingered for a second on each outtake, looking at the images hard. She hated the adage of pictures being worth their weight in words, much preferring the phrase “seeing is believing” but even she could spare some words for the pictures she was flipping through. 

 

No matter the subject-- model, actor, politician, activist, musician, magnate, even royalty-- there was always something more to see beyond the picture's first glance. It came down to the body language, microexpressions, their eyes. 

 

Really, if she had taken the time to examine Ben's photos a bit more, she wouldn't have been surprised by the deal that they made. True, his body language spoke of raised hackles, a guard halfway up, his hand seemingly gripping for stability as she tabbed through the photos. But there was something about his eyes that kept him open. A silent plea for  _ something _ . 

 

She didn't know what. And she wasn't about to ask.

 

No, what was important was that he promised to be open enough with Skywalker resources to help her. At the end of the day, she couldn't guarantee that Ben's family would accept him, let alone forgive him. Just like he couldn't promise with any amount of certainty that they would find her family.

 

She clicked to a different folder, opening up a word document, an incomplete family tree popping into view. Her mouth quirked with thought, frustration, yet she could feel how the newfound hope was attempting to smooth her lips into a neutral line-- or better yet, a smile.

 

There were too many gaps in the family tree-- in fact, it was practically blank. Her mother's side was somewhat finished, but her maternal grandparents were long dead by the time she was born, and her mother had been an only child. As such, that was a dead end. 

 

Her father's side was different though. That was where the questions stemmed. Amilyn didn't know enough to help fill in the blanks-- she only knew that the Kenobi family ties were strained, and that, at the time of his demise, Rey's father had stipulated that custody of his daughter would be granted to Amilyn, and no one else. 

 

Rey didn't want to think of what would have happened if Amilyn hadn't taken her in, or worse, if her godmother had also been in the family car, like she was supposed to be. It was Fate or luck that minimized the tragedy of what could have been but still…

 

It didn't bode well with Rey that there would have been no one else to claim her if such circumstances had arose. She didn't want to believe it.

 

She shook herself from the thought with a groan, quickly exiting the word document as her phone buzzed with an incoming email. She flipped the phone over quickly, snorting to herself as she glanced at the notification, returning to her laptop instead.

 

_ From: Leia Organa-Solo  _

 

_ Dear Reyna, _

 

_ I hope this email finds you well, and that there are no hard feelings from this morning. It was very presumptuous of me to ask you to help Ben and myself. He’s a rather difficult personality, so I do not blame you for your refusal. _

 

_ As a show of good faith, I would like to invite you and a guest of your choosing (your godmother, perhaps?) to the opera this Friday. While I’m sure you and yours have season passes, it would be an honor to host you in our private box.  _

 

_ Attached to this email, you will find the tickets, though I’m sure you merely need to mention my name and you shouldn’t have any trouble. _

 

_ Best,  _

 

_ Leia Organa-Solo _

  
  


Rey nearly rolled her eyes, banished the email to her trash folder when her eyes fell on the last line and her jaw clenched.

 

_ P.S. If you are hesitating, let me assure you that Ben will not be in attendance; only my husband and my brother will be joining us.  _

  
  


For that alone, she quickly typed out a response, a simple _Yes, of course, I’d love to come, thank you_ before she shut the laptop with a snap, pushing herself back from the desk and swiping her Armani messenger bag up. It did nothing to just sit there and seethe. It was about quitting time anyways-- all the more reason to duck out of the office, beat the traffic, put a plan into motion.

 

Ben, whether he knew it or not, had a night at the opera to prepare for.


	8. Chapter 8

It really shouldn’t have surprised her that Armitage answered Ben’s apartment door, glass of red wine in hand, smile on his lips. “We were wondering when you’d join the party,” he teased, pecking her on the cheek, ignoring her raised eyebrow as he motioned for her to follow.

 

“Ben is currently getting measured. He looks like a kid getting fitted for his first communion,” he snickered, and Rey chuckled.

 

“This I have to see.”

 

When it wasn’t trashed, the penthouse apartment was rather beautiful. Rich mahogany floors, plenty of sunshine from the picture windows, a few pieces of art dotting the walls. The photographer rolled her eyes at the large portrait of Ben that hung over the fireplace, a baby grand piano a few feet. It was an odd mise-en-scene, a place that you could see Dean Martin performing in leisurely, a glass of scotch in hand, voice smoky, cool, playful.

 

Armitage glanced back at Rey, smirking at her disgruntled glare at the portrait of Ben. “If it makes you feel better, it came in a set. He just didn’t bother to put his parents’ painting up.”

 

“If you say so,” she strode quickly to join the red-haired man, tossing a baleful look at the painting once more. “What _are_ you doing here, anyways?”

 

“Ben didn’t want to beg you for help, especially since he guessed that you would be on the stylist’s side. ” He studied her for a moment, standing there in the mouth of the hallway. “Is it true that you’re helping him? Or is he delusional?”

 

She looked back at him, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

 

There was some indecipherable look in Armitage’s eyes as he looked at her now, as if he expected her to correct herself, as if he couldn’t trust himself to trust her. She didn’t blame him--she wasn’t sure she could trust herself either.

 

Armitage sighed, shaking his head. “You really are a glutton for punishment.”

 

“He promised to help me in return. It’s not that much of a surprise. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” She shrugged.

 

“He offered to help? That’s out of character,” He muttered, rubbing his jaw, as if thinking.

 

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Maybe it is. I wouldn’t know. You’ve known Ben longer than I have. All I know is that he asked for help and offered me help in return. It’s not that odd.”

 

He stared at her for a long moment, seemed to hesitate before raising his wine glass, as if to toast her. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

 

A beat of silence, and Rey nearly demanded that he spit out whatever was on his mind, but then he waved at her to follow again. “Come on-- I only arrived ten minutes before you did, and let me tell you, it’s the worst day of Ben’s life. I love it.”

 

From the look on Ben’s face, perched on a stepstool as Poe carefully pinned back a sample suit, glancing up every so often to speak to Kaydel, Armitage was wholly correct. The bedroom was a disaster-- piles of clothes tossed about,the stylist's assistant compounding the mess with each armful from the walk-in closet-- and in the middle of it all stood the grumpiest live mannequin, pouting fiercely.

 

Even so, Ben seemed to find Rey instantly, his eyes following her as she approached. “Oh good, you’re here. I was wondering when Satan herself would grace my dress-up date from hell.”

 

Rey barely opened her mouth when Ben flinched, glancing down with a glare. “Ouch. Fuck, Dameron, I’m not a voodoo doll.”

 

“Oops. My hand slipped,” Poe muttered, his hands steady like a surgeon’s, his tone not at all apologetic.

 

“Any progress?” Rey asked Kaydel, the blond nodding solemnly as she carefully laid a pile of sweaters on the king-sized bed, the black Egyptian cotton sheets seeming to cradle the rich fabrics now strewn across it.

 

“Quite a bit. There may be hope for him yet.”

 

“You’re talking about my wardrobe, not my health,” Ben groused, preemptively leaning away from Poe’s hand, the stylist looking up with a glare.

 

"Really. My style isn't bad," Ben frowned, trying to look at Poe, who now flitted around him, jotting notes, like a whirling dervish with a tape measure. "When I was younger, Lando Calrissian himself styled me."

 

"Is he styling you still?" Poe asked, a brow raised as he stilled for only a moment. Rey hid a smile behind her hand. Even if he didn’t have a deep respect for his predecessor’s work, Poe seemed unimpressed, a fact that Ben could sense.

 

"No, but..."

 

"It shows. I rest my case." Poe jotted down one final note before looking at Rey fully, for the first time since she stepped into the turmoil. “The man wanted to suggest having a cape in his collection. _A cape._ Something meant for costume parties, galas, or if you're the Lord of fashion himself.”

 

“The horror,” Rey noted dryly, Ben’s guttural scoff loud in response.

 

“He suggested that I wear scarves instead. _Scarves._ ”

 

"A good scarf is androgynous. It adds a pop of color, a bit of interest." Poe's eyes swept the room, at the myriad of clothing, sighing. "It can also take attention away from your disaster areas, which seems to be everything on your frame."

 

"Do you suppose you can take Ben down from 'rich douche' to 'stylish asshole?'" Armitage had settled himself on the bed, leaning on a pile of slacks, nursing his wine  as he grinned, ignoring the glare Ben tossed his way.

 

Poe glanced at Armitage, eyes ticking up to take stock of his inseam, the draping of his sweater, the collared shirt tucked underneath. He clicked his tongue, and in a second, Kaydel was at his side, lint brush in hand. "Perhaps not, but we can make you a little less furry. You have enough cat hair on you that I thought your sweater was Angora."

 

Armitage waved off the brush with a frown, instead downing the rest of his wine. “I’ll pass, thank you very much. Besides, I should take my leave-- Millicent is probably crying for her wet food by now.”

 

He glanced at his friend, still standing stiffly on the stepstool, as if he was a monument to American elitism. “Wouldn’t do me any good to wait around for this to go anywhere-- he’s beyond help.”

 

Ben snorted, muttered something that vaguely sounded like “asshole,” and Rey turned her attention back to him. It didn’t surprise her that his eyes were already on her when she looked back, but his lips were set in a thoughtful line.

 

For a moment, she was sure that he was lost in thought, merely staring in her direction, not on purpose, but then his lips tugged up at the corner, a small, satisfied smile. And then…

 

“Are you going to answer Poe, sweetheart?” Rey flushed at the question, her gaze snapping off from Ben’s in an instant, to her right, where Poe stood. Kaydel stood alongside him, two ties in her hands, a compare and contrast. It was as if ten minutes had easily passed, even though she was sure it had barely been one, Armitage’s footsteps still echoing down the hall, the front door barely opening now.

 

Both stylist and assistant were looking at her oddly, and she was tempted to ask how many times they had tried to call her attention to them, how out of it she was, if she had gone insane. What she asked was simple enough, almost casual to her ears.

 

“I’m sorry, Poe; what did you say?”

 

“I asked: which color? Scarlet or cerulean?” Kaydel held up the ties again, and Rey harrumphed, considering the two options. She could feel Poe stare sitting on her heavily, and so she stared harder at the options, as if it mattered.

 

“The blue,” she muttered, waving off Poe opening his mouth, surely to correct her, remind her of the shade. Instead, he looked pensive, plucking the ties from Kaydel’s hands, framing Ben’s face with the two, a half-finished picture frame.

 

“Are you sure? I think some red would be nice with his complexion," Poe mused.

 

"A maroon to bring out the ruddiness of his cheeks, yes," Kaydel agreed, retrieving her tablet from the bedside table, her finger quickly flicking at something on the screen. Rey could only assume that she was browsing through whatever catalogue they had devised for Ben’s closet, or perhaps was browsing online for different options.

 

She shook her head, murmuring to Poe, "Nothing too red-- his mother is running on the Democratic ticket."

 

"Is she? Hmm. Perhaps we should stick to blue?" Ben cleared his throat then, and the stylist sighed. “Do you have something to add, Mr. Solo?”

 

“Only that I don’t know how to tie a tie, but other than that, please carry on. I’m fascinated,” Ben drawled, Poe seemingly turning ashen.

 

“Are you suggesting that there may or may not be a clip-on tie in your closet, Mr. Solo?” The question was met with a shrug, and Poe winced. “We’re ripping this closet apart, Kaydel. We need to get rid of that monstrosity. ‘Can’t tie a tie’... Jesus Christ.”

 

Kaydel rolled her eyes but dutifully followed Poe into the closet, leaving Rey to consider her pet project. Ben groaned, stepping from the stool and sitting--carefully-- on it.

 

“I hope you’re satisfied,” he growled, sulkily resting his chin on his hands. “I hope this is the worst that it will get, because I’ve had quite enough.”

 

Rey ignored him, looking at the top of his head instead of his face. “Do you really not know how to tie a tie?”

 

The answer was a shrug, his shoulders raising and drooping wearily. “Never had to learn. Butler, and all that.” He cast his gaze to her, frowning. “This is the part where you call me an ignoramus or something.”

 

“Oh, now you’re pitying yourself,” Rey scoffed, turning to the bed, locating another tie quickly despite the mess. She motioned him over. “It’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

 

He eyed her suspiciously, slowly rising. “How do I know you won’t choke me?” He asked, letting her loop the tie around his neck, the black silk sliding smoothly against the collar of his shirt.

 

“We have a deal, Solo, and it wouldn’t do me any good to kill you.” It hadn’t struck her how large Ben was until she surveyed the broadness of his shoulders, the muscularity hiding under the fabric of his shirt. She had known that he was tall-- she came up to his shoulder, and she was by no means considered short.

 

Still, she felt as if she was suffocating from the lack of space, even though she could easily step away.

 

It didn’t help that he smelled good, his cologne or aftershave filling the space that he didn’t take up. She took a breath, forced her gaze on her hands.

 

“So how I learned is that you cross the wide end over the narrow end, to the left.” She did so, Ben’s eyes following the movement, his glance up at her short as she continued.

 

“Then you put the wide end up through the loop you just made around the neck, from under. And then it’s to the left again.”

 

Ben’s pulse was thrumming, the pulsepoint in his neck seeming to flutter. Rey didn’t let herself have enough time to note anything past it, feeling the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

 

“Then it’s over the small end again and---”

 

“This has a lot of steps,” Ben murmured, his voice low, soft, as if to speak at full volume would to damage her hearing. The quiet of his words turned them tender though, and Rey knew she made a mistake when she looked up, locked eyes with him.

 

“Of course it does. This is a Windsor knot.”

 

“Why not a regular knot? Why don’t you treat me like I’m stupid?” His grin was wide, but his eyes remained on hers, a vulnerable, all too familiar swirl of hurt in his dark eyes. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to learn, Rey realized, but it certainly was the first time that someone hadn't treated him like an idiot, expressed some frustration when he didn’t seem to understand the words, follow the instructions.

 

Or maybe she was wrong. Still, she flippantly shrugged, her hands falling into the quick, practiced routine, not explaining. She needed something to focus on, something to keep her fingers busy, lest she pat his shoulder, or worse, cup his cheek.

 

“Tying it simply could easily be made into a slipknot and I'd be tempted to strangle you." She slid a hand up the length of the tie, tightening the knot, as if to demonstrate. His eyes sparked at the response, the hurt gone, the fire back. Much better, except her heart seemed to be racing now, adrenaline thrumming into her fingers.

 

"Lucky for you, I'm really into breathplay," Ben crooned, his smile genuine, his mischief solidified. His breath caressed her face and she was still, hands still on him, her head tipped back just so to look at him.

 

His eyes had barely dipped to her her mouth, his eyes darkening for some other reason, when Poe shouted with triumph from the closet, and Rey sprung back, flushing. Ben said nothing, his eyebrow quirking, as if waiting for some excuse, some denial. Instead, she turned away.

 

“Everything alright, Poe?”

 

The stylist now emerged, a scrap of fabric held aloft. “ _Veni, vidi, vici,_ Reyna.” Poe waved the clip-on in Ben’s face as he stopped before him. “Never again will you besmirch the name of formal wear with this trash. It’s not even fit to be a costume prop.”

 

“Oh!” Rey clapped a hand to her forehead, cursed herself, the two men looking at her curiously.

 

“I nearly forgot.” She turned to Ben, pulling her shoulders back, nodding at him somberly. “Your mother invited us to the opera this Friday. We’re going.”

 

Ben’s brows knit together, lips pursing. “Are we now?”

 

“Yes. This is our test run-- I get to gauge how helpless you are in high society and we go from there.” She jutted out her chin, crossed her arms. “No complaints from you, either.”

 

“Why should I complain? You’re the one willingly being seen with me in public,” he grinned wolfishly, but Rey didn’t budge.

 

“Maybe so, but _you_ have to dress up.” She looked to Poe, and they shared a smile. Ben’s face fell once more, and he plopped down on his bed, laying back, eyes closing as if he had a headache.

 

“Hail Mary, full of grace, please be with me. _Fucking hell.”_


	9. Chapter 9

It was odd, going out on a Friday night.

 

Rey spared herself a glance in the mirrored wall of the grand townhouse’s lobby, brushing a wayward slip of hair, her gaze dipping down to the front of her black silk bodysuit, the deep “v” of the neckline ending at her natural waist, the legs of the suit wide enough to billow out, as if she was really wearing a dress, a gown. She knew there were eyes on her-- after all, someone her age should be dressed in something short, something tight, something wild and befitting the beginning of the weekend, another round of celebrating youth.

 

But, as always, moments were designed to be subverted, and so she glanced away from the mirror, levelling a gaze around her at the curious passersby, her grip tightening on her leather clutch. It was the most that she could do while she waited, the evening air above the city pinking with the impending sunset, flushing orange before the looming twilight.

 

With a deep breath, she straightened her back, stood tall and poised, her high heels practical but hopefully enough to make her a match to Ben’s large frame, his wide frame. It reminded her of some statement Amilyn had made, some great speech before a fashion show, and her lips curved at the familiarity. 

 

_ Fashion, as with anything, is about balance. You can’t have flashy without simplicity, nor gaudy without underwhelming, nor avant garde without tradition. As such, it does one well to challenge only what they can handle. A shift in power does no one good when dressing.  _

 

When Kaydel had arrived at her apartment this afternoon, a large dry-cleaning bag in her arms and a smile on her lips, the photographer hadn’t been sure what to expect to find within. She implicitly trusted Poe, yes. He had never done her wrong, personally or professionally, but she still found herself nervous when he insisted on styling her alongside Ben for the outing.

 

She deserved the nerves, considering the fact that he had dressed Kendall Jenner in what was essentially Saran Wrap for the coup de grace of his last independent collection. Even now, two years later, she winced at the memory of her godmother’s very verbal disapproval. The momentary fallout had been epic, and Rey was relieved that Poe had put it behind him, especially when Kaydel had unveiled the designer piece for the night’s festivities.

 

“I believe he described it as ‘what Persephone would wear, if she reigned over us modern mortals,’” the assistant had grinned at the pleased gasp, and Rey brushed a hand against almost non-existent bodice of the bodysuit pensively. 

 

It was more daring than she would have gone for, the cut of the neckline forcing her to forgo a bra, but there was a type of power that seemed to purr against her skin with every sway of her hips. It was that power, that seduction, that prompted her to forgo anything more than a touch of bronzer, some mascara, a touch of lipgloss. 

 

After all, this wasn’t a gala, an opening night. There was no need for a grand statement when you could stun with simplicity. 

 

The elevator had barely dinged to announce the new arrivals to the ground floor when she felt herself being whirled around towards the door instead of the elevator, the tanned pair of hands thankfully belonging to Poe, the man’s grin dashing and wide. “Just when I was beginning to doubt my genius...my beautiful creation, my Galatea, very good _. _ ”

 

Despite herself, her snort of amusement, Rey beamed at the designer. “Why do I have a feeling that you made this specially for me?”

 

“Because you’re my favorite photographer and you are always right?” Poe teased back, looping an arm around her waist as he spun her around again, chuckling at how the fabric of Rey’s pants swished around them. “Enough about you though, my dear. Address me as Pygmalion, if you please, for I have molded some meaner stuff into the perfect man.”

 

“I somehow dou--” Rey felt the word get stuck in her throat, her eyes alighting on her companion for the night, her mouth unattractively hanging open now. Ben seemed to shift uncomfortably under her gaze for a moment,his eyes on her shoes, but then he followed her legs up, to her torso, to her neck, to her face. The wicked grin that curled on his lips, like a tiger posing relaxed before striking, had her skin pricking, a rush of goosebumps seemingly springing up.

 

Well. It was safe to say that he liked what he saw, and even safer to say that Rey suddenly was unsure of herself, a rush of heat driving away the chill. 

 

Even in her heels, Ben towered over her, a fact that she was hazily aware of as he drew closer, a few long strides closing the space between them. His hand was warm and large and cupping her chin, his movement gentle as he helped her close her gaping mouth, raised her face as if to have a better look at her. His silver cufflinks glittered pretty under the lobby’s chandelier, but she was drawn to the dark of his eyes instead. 

 

For a moment, Rey wouldn’t have minded sinking into his arms, wondering if this was what it was to be weak. Then he opened his mouth, and the feeling dissipated.

 

“It’s not polite to stare, Miss Kenobi.” The words were like a rush of cold water and she quelled her gasp, returning his amused gaze with a steady one of her own.

 

“And it’s not polite to manhandle your chaperone, but here you are, with your hands on me.” He chuckled at her snap, the pad of his thumb seeming to slip up, as if to drag it across her bottom lip, and she braced herself…

 

For nothing, his hand falling away as he raised them in surrender. “Far be it from me to touch a woman without her permission. Forgive me, Miss Kenobi.”

 

“I’ll consider it,” she returned, not having to look to know that Poe was watching at them curiously, as if they were a pair of dolls that had come to life seconds after playing dress up, as if he would have directed them to do something different but wasn’t displeased with the new outcome.

 

“We should get going,” Rey murmured, and she was a half-step into a turn when Ben’s voice halted her, his question full of false innocence, seeking approval.

 

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to go and get changed? Or is this acceptable?” He grinned at her, and she could have cursed Poe for giving her such an open design, a flush surely painting her chest the faintest of pinks. 

 

_ So much for balance and power,  _ she thought darkly, making a show of her critical eye sweeping from foot to head and then back down again. 

 

“An English-fit tuxedo by Dior Homme is hardly avant garde. It’s almost traditional,” she mused, casting a baleful look down. “I see that you couldn’t convince him to leave the Louboutins behind, Dameron.” 

 

“It was a compromise-- either that, or he left behind the bow-tie.” The designer noted, a look of quiet, perhaps reluctant, pride perched on his cupid’s bow. “That was another ordeal in itself.”

 

Ben snorted, shaking his head. “It was only an ordeal because you made me tie it by myself.” He leaned forward, perhaps puffing out his chest just a bit, as he presented his handiwork to the woman. She couldn’t help herself, slipping a hand up and between them to finger the black fabric. She should be examining it, inspecting it, but her heart thrummed all too loudly in her ears, as if grateful to have an excuse to touch him. 

 

Damn her. Damn it. 

 

“You tied it yourself?” Rey could hear the hopeful lilt to her words, and so corrected herself, shrugging. “I’ve seen five-year-olds manage better, but I suppose I should be thankful that miracles exist.”

 

“Careful, Reyna, you almost sounded impressed there.” His grin was infuriating, and for it, she stepped forward, close enough that she could feel the heat of his frame, the twitch of his hands.

 

“Hardly, though I can almost understand how women are fooled into sleeping with you,” she cooed, pulling away quickly as she hummed. “The car is outside. We’re going to be late.”

 

“Curtain isn’t until 8 o’clock,” Ben sighed, rolling his eyes at the fierce glare he was met with, shaking his head. “Did my mother send the car?”

 

“Yes, and I would appreciate it if you went and got in it. I’ll be along in a minute.” Rey huffed at how Ben scrunched his nose at her before acquiescing, her eyes following his broad back against her will. She turned back to Poe now, his bemused look and cocked brow prompting a sigh.

 

“What, Dameron? Was he that much of a pain? Are you going to demand my firstborn as payment?”

 

He chuckled dryly at the suggestion. “Hardly. However, I did not spend upwards of two hours trying to get him into a tuxedo Prince Harry  _ wishes  _ he could fill out for you not to pay him a legitimate compliment.”

 

“If you didn’t notice, Dameron, he didn’t pay me a compliment either.”

 

“How could he, when all the blood from his brain was occupied elsewhere?” Poe laughed loudly now as Rey swatted him with her clutch, her frown fierce. 

 

“Don’t make me insist you style him in Ralph Lauren next time,” she hissed, the stylist’s brow furrowing, offended.

 

"That's blasphemy and you know it, Reyna." Poe sniffed. "He was made for Versace and nothing less."

 

"You done?" She crossed her arms, a small smile tugging at her words. “I have a Skywalker who is unattended and in possession of a very nice car. Heaven knows what terror he is inflicting on Manhattan as you scold me.” 

 

"Just be nice. He's nervous." Poe straightened his scarf, tossed Rey one last approving look. "Also, go easy on the clothes when you're tearing them off him. The cufflinks are on loan from Tiffany's, and Bodhi Rook himself will have my ass if they get lost in the cushions of a limo."

 

“Jesus Christ, Dameron-- I should be thanking you but you’re disgusting.” She could hear his answering laugh, now still ringing in her ears as she quickly left the lobby, the light spring air chill against her skin as she stepped outside. 

 

Ben still wasn’t in the limo, instead standing alongside it, leaning against it-- carefully, thank god, thus sparing the suit-- as he chatted with the driver. Rey had half the mind to scold him, to grouse about punctuality, but then he straightened, his eyes spying her. 

 

In a moment, his intention for lingering was clear, the man opening the car door for her, his hand held out to help her in.“Miss Kenobi?”

 

He smiled at her, his eyes soft and dark, and she swallowed thickly now, tentatively accepting the hand. “Mr. Solo.”

 

Slipping into the plush interior of the car, the man now sliding in beside her, Rey realized with a start that her hand was still entwined with his. She reclaimed it quickly, an indignant sniff hopefully hiding her blush. “Don’t get used to touching me, Solo. I only needed your help.”

 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he murmured back, settling himself back against the seat with a smile. “You’re the one who invited me. I’m your date for the evening.”

 

She let him have that one. After all, it didn’t do her well to argue, not when he looked like that. She settled back as well, shutting her eyes as if plagued with a headache. With any luck, the drive to the opera house would be a quiet one. She needed it, if she expected to survive the night.

 

* * *

 

Ben considered his companion from the corner of his eye again, even though she was tucked rather close to his side, and had been for the past ten minutes. It was out of necessity, she’d probably insist, gesturing to the crush of people around them, here as they mounted the lobby staircase. 

 

He was somewhat acquainted with the building, remembering some far off time, when he was younger and played in the Lincoln Center’s plaza fountain during intermissions of whatever opera his father didn’t want to sit through with his mother. His heart shrank back at the memory, and he didn’t blame it--that had been long ago, had stopped when he was fifteen, when he discovered it was easier to get attention if you acted out instead of acted right.

 

At least, that’s what he had thought, but he was standing next to Rey Kenobi, who seemed intent on disproving that theory with the sheer fact of her existence. Really, he hadn’t thought she would have agreed to his odd proposal in her office, remembering her hazel eyes rapt on his, her lips forming around words of agreement. 

 

Ben wondered if he was still processing it, if he was in shocked. He knew that he was shocked-- had been tempted to ask her  _ why on earth would you say yes _ \-- but he had no one to blame but himself for that. He had found something that she had wanted, and took a gamble. She could have easily thrown him out of the building and by extension, her life, but she hadn’t. She had welcomed him in, and if it wasn’t against his interests, he would consider scheduling an appointment for her to be checked by a neurologist. 

 

Heaven forbid that someone help him willingly, he joked to himself. Surely, there was a tumor pressing against the decision-making part of her brain. There was really no way that golden girl Reyna Kenobi was helping perpetual fuck-up Ben Solo. 

 

There was no way. 

 

Still, he forced himself to breathe, finding her eyes on him, wondering how long she had been staring, if she had asked him anything. 

 

“I’m sorry; what did you say?”

 

“I said ‘We’ll wait for your family here,’” she replied, her arms crossed, her look pensive. He let his eyes wander to her neck, to her shoulders, but he forced his gaze not to go lower, tempted as he was. She was stunning, and he would gladly hand over his Amex black card and his dignity to her if that was the price to pay to kiss her, his hand still burning from hers when he had helped her out of the car.

 

It would have been easy to resolve his infatuation if she had been a two-dimensional bitch, if she had not shown some sense of depth, some humanity under her prickly exterior. If she had just been a rich girl with an acidic tongue, he could have worked her out of his system with another rich heiress. No harm, no foul. But no, she had to have layers, goddamn her.

 

He had sworn that his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when she had requested the driver to turn the radio on and then up, the limo becoming consumed with the sounds of “Killer Queen” and Rey’s voice trying to keep up with Freddie Mercury. Her voice was good enough, nothing extraordinary, but it had been her smile, her grin, her fingers tapping along that had made it hard to take his eyes off her. 

 

And then her off handed comment, the slipping of her mask, about how she sang the song to annoy the great Amilyn Holdo at breakfast as a teenager?

 

He was an idiot, but he was enraptured, and completely, totally fucked. 

 

“Did I get the song stuck in your head?” His eyes snapped to Rey, her lips pursed after her question, her hazel eyes made larger by mascara, eyeliner, and he realized that he had been humming the Queen hit. 

 

“Just a bit,” he admitted, shrugging carelessly. “I figure I might as well remember what good music sounds like before I have to listen to a woman wail in German for three hours.”

 

“Fair enough, though the woman will be wailing in Italian, and it’s more like three and a half hours, if you count intermission.” Despite the correction, Rey smiled at him before her gaze left him to scan the crowd around them.

 

“I almost feel like Poe overdressed us. We look like we’re about to meet the queen,” she sighed.

 

“Almost-- my mother can put on quite the regal air when she wants to.” 

 

Despite himself, he took her hand, squeezing it. “It’ll be fine. Really. You look exquisite and I...apparently only look passable for a high society event,” he joked. Rey rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t seem to be in a rush to pull her hand away.

 

“Sooner than later, you’ll fit in just fine. After all, everyone wants to be us,” she mused, gesturing at the curious gazes that landed on them as theatre patrons filtered around them, chatting amongst themselves, waiting to be seated, to fall silent for a few hours.

 

“Maybe, or maybe everyone just wants to be with you.” Was it pointless to flirt with her? It was a question he wouldn’t ever answer, not as she flashed him a mischievous smile.  

 

She leaned close to him, opened her mouth to answer with surely something clever, but the tiny step forward was now be backtracked, her head whipping around and his whipping up at the voice above the din.

 

“Benjamin? What are you doing here?” 

 

At the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them, was Leia, her dress red and velvet, a flame standing out, especially when flanked by her husband, clad in blue, and brother, dressed in gray. Ben had been well aware of the possibility that his mother didn’t know that he was coming, but seeing her wide eyes, her frown, made the fact sting just a tad. The pain was only more apparent as Rey dropped his hand, as if burned, like a child caught playing with matches.

 

Still, he shrugged, offering a closed-lipped scowl as the trio approached, various levels of apprehension on their faces. “I figured that we would have to take our family Christmas card at some point, and seeing that Luke can’t stand being in the same building as me for very long, some extreme measures had to be taken.”

 

“Why are you  _ actually  _ here, Ben?” 

 

His gaze didn’t even flicker over to his uncle, already knowing that he was speaking through gritted teeth, still carrying a grudge from the last time they fought...or was it from the time before that? He didn’t particularly care-- he hadn’t gotten along with his uncle since the man had suggested that Ben would be better if sent to a private school. 

 

Like it did him any good when he had been. 

 

“He’s my guest,” Rey replied, pulling herself tall next to Ben, the man’s face impassive and smooth like a stone. If the younger Solo was a stone, she quietly reasoned, then his father was a crag, a rough handsomeness still apparent despite the wrinkles. It was also apparent that he was the only one amused, a sloping smile setting up shop on his jowls.

 

Next to him, Luke Skywalker seemed irreversibly severe, especially as he frowned at her. “Wrong answer,” he muttered, and then he was descending the stairs, his gray three-piece suit bright against the dapple of formalwear.

 

“Luke!” Leia heaved a sigh, tossing a look back at her son, a doleful look that he recognized all too well. He could practically hear her hissing it, all frustration, some exhaustion:  _ look what you just did. _

 

Still, he said nothing, watching Leia now disappear after her brother, a couple grumbling as she bumped into them without an apology.  _ Why apologize _ , he thought bitterly.  _ Their feelings aren’t as important as Luke’s, right? _

 

“Well, this was even more fun than I was expecting. Thank you, Miss Kenobi,” Han muttered, nodding to Rey with a wink. “We should do this more often, Ben.”

 

“Great to see you too, Dad,” he replied dryly, crossing his arms. “Are you going to follow them out, or are you staying for the show?”

 

“I can read the room, kid. I’d hate to interrupt date night.” Han nodded at his son, his smile still small. “Enjoy the box seats-- they’re not as private as you’d probably like, but then again, she’s a good girl, Ben.”

 

“She also hates me; don’t you, sweetheart?” 

 

Rey huffed at the two men, shaking her head. “I see where you get it from, Ben.”

 

“And with that, I’m leaving. Until next time, Ben.” Another smile, another nod, and now Han descended the steps, straight-backed and proud.

 

The crowd was thinning, a cue that seating had begun, that it was almost time for the curtain to rise. Yet, the pair remained still for a moment longer, watching the father walk against the swarm, his step light, his shoulders relaxed.

 

“Well,” Rey paused, considered her words. “That went about as well as I expected.”

 

“It went pretty well, all things considering,” Ben agreed, turning to her now, offering his arm. “Miss Kenobi, will you do me the honor of sitting next to me while people shriek in a foreign language?”

 

“I suppose so, Mr. Solo.” Rey accepted his arm with only a moment’s falter, her eyes curious on him. “Do you know what opera we’re even seeing?”

 

“Nope. I figured I’d enjoy myself since you’d be sitting next to me.” He grinned at her, taking pleasure in how she flushed, even as she rolled her eyes at him.

 

“Mozart’s  _ Don Giovanni. _ ” She paused for a moment, simpering. “It’s about a playboy who gets what he deserves for being the worst.”

 

Ben snorted, leading Rey up the stairs. “Really? Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re trying to put me on the straight and narrow then, Reyna. I can’t wait to see what I’d have in store for me if you didn’t help me.”

 

Her answering smile was dazzling, and he could have honestly stayed in the warmth of it, lingered on the staircase, lingered there forever… but, as with anything, they had to move forward, his hand on the small of her back as an usher escorted them to their seats.

 

_ If this is what moving forward is like, I really don’t mind, _ Ben mused.


	10. Chapter 10

“What are you doing?” 

 

Rey rolled her eyes at the question, carefully setting up the small screen before her, language options flickering up for her to select. It had barely been ten minutes since they had sat down, and this had to be the fourth time she had been asked this question.

 

In some fairness, she had at least been doing something different each time, be it picking her seat, or setting down her clutch, asking for a pair of opera glasses, and so on. Still, he reminded her of a bored child, the question seemingly blurted out, his leg bouncing rapidly. 

 

She was tempted to snap at him, to tell him to hush, that she was sweating buckets in her outfit and was remembering why she didn’t go out on Friday nights, let alone with men like him, but before she could, as with the past instances, she forced herself to remember Poe’s words, to take a deep breath.

 

_ Just be nice. He’s nervous.  _

 

She hadn’t asked Poe to clarify--what was Ben nervous about? Attending an opera? Dealing with his family? Impressing her? The possibilities were endless, and it would be a bit odd for her to turn to her left, to ask him, so instead she kept the question to herself and glanced back at him.

 

“My Italian is limited, and I want to understand what they’re saying.” She gestured to the black screen before Ben. “I can set up yours if you need me to.”

 

“Rey, we’re in the best seats that money can buy. If I wanted to stare at a screen, I would have stayed home,” he replied, leaning back in the red seats, surveying the vantage point his family had gifted to them before abandoning them. 

 

Their own box seats, four of the six seats in the area unoccupied,were in the grand tier, right next to the director’s personal box. It was clear that these seats had cost dearly, the view to the stage ideal, the sound almost crystal clear, the luxurious red velvet and gold detailed interior of the theatre iconic for a reason.

 

If his mother had stayed, she probably would have made a big show of talking with the director, probably would be rubbing elbows with anyone who could afford the nice seats. Perhaps she would try to introduce Ben to them, try to preemptively curry political favor and likability with a nice united family front. 

 

Thankfully, she was not, and Ben grinned at Rey, who seemed to have resumed frowning at him. 

 

“Speaking of seats, why are you right next to me? There’s enough room that you don’t have to crowd me, Solo.” 

 

Was it impetuous to ask such a question? Maybe. In a different world, Rey could have counted on a buffer of kinds with his mother sitting with them, maybe even sitting between them. Even now, she looked across the theatre and could see such a scenario occurring in another box, as if to reaffirm that no, she wasn’t insane for thinking it, for wishing for it.

 

“Manners, sweetheart. I thought it was common practice to sit next to one’s date at social outings,” Ben drawled, crossing his legs and examining the program with interest when she cast a withering look his way.

 

“Fine. But you’re not my date. You’re my guest.”

 

“The lady doth protest too much… but it’s alright. I won’t tell.” He leaned closer for a moment, and Rey couldn’t fight the shiver that slipped down her spine at how warm his breath was against her ear, her neck, as he whispered, “Besides, how am I going to ask you a million questions about the plot?”

 

“I will throw you off this balcony if you even think of interrupting with your questions.  _ Especially _ if you can answer them by reading your program or by turning on the translations,” she whispered back, turning away as he chuckled, thankfully leaning back in his seat again. 

 

Mistakes were made when people were too close, and Rey forced herself to breathe through her mouth, the spicy tang of Ben’s cologne just a bit much for her fraying nerves at the moment. His scent was something dark, a bit musky, reminding her of cloves and cigar smoke, of the bite of a good scotch but the sweetness of cinnamon. It was complicated and different and it contradicted her need for similar and simple. 

 

It was torture, her worst nightmare, and to make it worse, she was more exposed than ever, with this goddamn gorgeous Grecian goddess jumpsuit. She considered demanding Ben to surrender his suit jacket, but then she thought of him in the button-down shirt, how well-defined his chest and arms would be and….

 

Well, his cologne would certainly be the last of her problems, that would be for damn sure.

 

“You alright, Reyna? You look a bit flushed.” The glare she shot him made him smile, even though he found himself distracted by the small rivulet of sweat that was slipping down the back of her neck. As she shifted, the drop did as well, shifting towards her front, surely to continue on between the valley of her breasts. He swallowed thickly, turning his attention to the crowd below them, another tier and the floor level seats gradually filling with more people.

 

“I’m fine. I just always forget that the Lincoln Center doesn’t ease out of the heat until May rolls around,” Rey murmured, plucking up the program in her lap and curling up in her seat a bit, tucking her legs beneath her. 

 

For all that she had to suffer tonight, she might as well be comfortable somehow. She could feel the weight of Ben’s eyes on her, and she sighed when she lifted her gaze from the typed synopsis and to the curious face of her guest. “What, Ben?”

 

“Nothing.” He fidgeted in his seat, and for a moment, she pitied him, the theatre seat seeming to be too small for how broad he was. It was endearing in a way, and she absentmindedly reached her hand out, resting it on his knee as he began to bounce it again. In an instance, he froze, his face blanking, as if he was quietly short-circuiting. 

 

“It’s okay that you’re nervous. You don’t have to be-- hardly anyone pays attention to the other patrons,” she soothed, patting his knee before she straightened up and pulled away. 

 

“I know,” he muttered, still shifting in his seat before stilling and slumping down in it with defeat. “I just really don’t know how to act. It’s been more than a decade since I’ve been in this box, and given what happened last time... I thought it’d be harder to come back.”

 

“What do you mean?” He seemed surprised at the question, his mouth dropping open now as the house lights dimmed and the orchestra began to ease their way into the overture, the shadows of actors and actresses taking their place onstage.

 

“Saved by the bell, Solo,” Rey murmured, turning her eyes to the stage and letting herself sink into concentration, feeling the warmth of Ben’s arm against hers as he shifted again.

 

He considered the woman beside him for a moment before turning to the unfolding action onstage as well, quelling a scoff. For not knowing that he was coming, his family had selected an interesting production to watch. Only his mother and uncle would have read the synopsis of the show and decide it was a still worthwhile, as if they hadn’t front-row seats to his life and their part in the drama.

 

It was fortunate that he hadn’t the time to answer Rey’s question-- he didn’t have a good enough answer to it. The only thing that he knew for certain is that he had held back on exacerbating the family tension for her sake. After all, she knew his family in a professional sense, and was too young to have seen the screaming matches that had taken place while he was in high school, often in the hall leading to the principal’s office. Maybe she had heard rumors, had some preconceived notions, but she didn't  _ know _ . 

 

Really, she couldn’t know enough about what happened in private to know what to expect in public, and he really did not want to acquaint her with that particular mess. Not when their partnership was so fresh, not when he was completely capable of fucking it up by himself, with no help or interference from his dysfunctional family, thank you very much.

 

There were odd nuances to his family drama, too much history to explain in one sitting, a mix of high and lows not unlike the vocal acrobatics the mezzo-soprano was taking on now. He glanced at Rey’s screen, the lyrics’ translation neatly scrolling by as the voices undulated, rose and fell, accompanied the woman’s warning to other women not to trust Don Giovanni, that he was a scoundrel, a cad.

 

Jesus-- anything that Luke probably would have said to Rey, if he had stayed, was being very succinctly covered by Donna Elvira. Ben shrank back in his seat, brow furrowing.

 

“Did you know that Mozart would write arias with quick successions of high and low notes, because he hated one of the divas and knew she’d bob her head for dramatic effect when she sang? Apparently she looked like a pecking chicken during performances,” Rey whispered in his ear now. 

 

He blinked, glancing to her, her lips closed in a sweet smile, her eyes back on the stage. He hadn't heard her shift closer, hadn't considered her even wanting to draw close enough to talk, and he felt almost dizzy from her closeness.

 

“Why on earth do you know that, Miss Smarty-pants?” Even in the darkness of the theatre, he could see how she flushed. She turned to him again, leaning towards him, her lips close to his ear as she murmured, as if in confession:

 

“When I was younger, I always wanted to impress adults. Appear more mature by knowing a lot, y’know? If I knew some odd fact and could recite it, I thought I could make myself endearing.” She snickered at herself, the sound sweet in Ben’s ear. “It didn’t work.”

 

“We’ve lived  _ very  _ different lives, Kenobi,” he returned, stretching with a huff, his arm coming to rest lightly on the back of Rey’s chair. She glanced at it, and then his face, a slim eyebrow raised.

 

“Comfortable, Solo?”

 

“As much as I can be in these tiny seats. I should have asked for a cushion or something.” He raised a finger to his lips, feeling his lips twitch with a smirk. “Now shush, sweethearti. I’m trying to have a cultural experience.”

 

He grinned at how she scoffed, and he certainly didn’t miss how she leaned her head back against his arm, as if comfortable enough to use him as a cushion.

 

If the price to pay for Rey Kenobi acting friendly was his family leaving him behind without a second thought once again, he could possibly get used to this.

 

* * *

 

"What's the etiquette of hooking up in the coat closet and/or bathroom at one of these events?" 

 

Rey straightened up in her seat, wondering if she had been dozing, if she had imagined the words, casting a look to her companion. He had been quiet for the most part since they had returned from intermission, the first act seeming to fly by quickly in the midst of whispered comments, including a rather amusing gasp from the man:

 

“You’re telling me that Don Giovanni managed to sleep with  _ 1,003 _ women?”

 

“That’s just in Spain. That’s not counting the 640 in Italy,  231 in Germany, 100 in France and 91 in Turkey,” Rey had whispered back, loudly snorting at Ben’s uncouth reply:

 

“His dick had to have fallen off-- there is just no way--” They had been shushed then, but the exchange hadn’t surprised her. At least it was on topic, and they had laughed about it during intermission.

 

“What did you just say, Benjamin?” She murmured back, his eyes glancing back to hers from the stage. He seemed distracted, his mind somewhere else, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know where.

 

“What’s the etiquette of hooking up at this kind of event?” He seemed so serious, so solemn, not even the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, that her first inclination wasn’t to smack him, but to blink back at him.  

 

"...I'm not going to answer that question, other than to say that it's in very bad taste."

 

He hummed at her answer, nodding to himself before turning back to the stage. No explanation, no further comment, no flirtatious complaint, not even some joke about her being a prude. Rey wondered if she had gone insane for wishing that Ben Solo would open his dumb mouth, but here she was, leaning towards him, hand coming to his shoulder to tug him closer. 

 

"Why are you asking?" She hissed, face flushing, wondering why she had to know so badly. It had been a simple question, he hadn't used it as a stepping stone to be impolite or misbehave in any way, and he wasn't bothering her anymore. There was an odd void settling in her gut as she considered it, and she recognized it as disappointment, as if she had expected  _ more _ from it. 

 

_ I must be losing my mind. _

 

Ben looked at her, brow furrowed in confusion until his eyes brightened, as if a light switch had been flicked, an idea had been had.

 

"Oh! Oh god, I wouldn't proposition you like that-- I have some charm." Ben grinned, even as Rey rolled her eyes at him, her scoff quiet.  He gestured down, to one of the box seats below them. "I'm asking because it definitely looks like someone is getting fingered in box 5."

 

"Don't point!" Rey hissed, yanking his hand down with a wince. She lifted her delicate pair of opera glasses, aiming them on the amorous pair below them. She peered at the scene unfolding, feeling her mouth drop.

 

"Oh my god." She set the glasses down, forced her gaze back on the stage, feeling an embarrassed blush paint the back of her neck.

 

"What?" His breath was hot in her ear, and she had to stop herself from shivering. It was definitely not the time, but still, her heart skipped a beat when she turned to him, their noses almost touching, their lips a few short inches apart.

 

"You're totally right. And you want to know what's worse? That's definitely his mistress, not his wife."

 

" _ Really? _ " Ben grinned, leaning towards her more, smiling at her pinking cheeks. "How do you know?”

 

“He’s one of the editors at  _ GQ _ … if I’m not mistaken, he’s next in line to be the editor-in-chief for that magazine. I met his wife at the Conde Nast company holiday party.” She winced lightly, shaking her head, pulling back. “Oof, what a mess.”

 

_ What’s a mess? That you just thought of Ben Solo doing something like that to you right now, naughty girl?  _ In the back of her head, there was a little voice asking, accusing, and she shook her head again, focusing on Ben’s words again.

 

“Is half the fun of the Opera spying on the other patrons?” 

 

Rey harrumphed at him, but still, she smiled. "It certainly doesn't hurt. But we're here for the art."

 

Ben sighed, slumping in his seat. Rey leaned towards him, raising a hand to shield her lips as she murmured to him, aware of the curious eyes on them as well.

 

"The ride home, however, is just  _ made  _ for gossip. Sit tight-- it gets better." She patted his hand, tried not to let her hold linger. He caught it before she could pull it away, rest it back on her lap, and she opened her mouth to protest…

 

But then closed it, sighing at how he ran a thumb over her knuckles, his hand dwarfing hers in his grasp. 

 

“I didn’t thank you earlier for inviting me.” His words were low and warm and sweet, and she almost closed her eyes, comfortable in the sound. 

 

“You don’t have to thank me-- I mean, your family didn’t stay. I should have said something more. It wasn’t right of them to do that.”

 

“Rey, it’s fine.” There was that smile again, her heart fluttering oddly in her chest despite her inclination to scold herself for it. “I definitely had more fun this way.”

 

In a moment, his lips were pressing softly to the back of her hand, now her palm, and she could scarcely see the need to breathe, let alone speak…

 

And then the first crescendo of applause went up, and she jolted, glancing around her at the other patrons rising to their feet. In a moment, Ben was dropping her hand to join in the applause, and she numbly followed suit, pushing herself up from her chair, just another pair of hands in a standing ovation.

 

Still, she could hear the words, Ben’s dark murmur, his arm coming to rest around her waist, his large hand lightly squeezing her hip. “Also? You don’t look like a good girl in this outfit of yours. You look like my best kind of nightmare.”

 

“Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll see me in your dreams tonight,” she replied, the tone meant to be acidic, her mouth turning it into a purr. 

 

"With how fortunate I feel to even be standing next to you, I have a really good feeling about my luck," he whispered back and Rey grit her teeth, wondered why there was a moan sitting at the tip of her tongue, why her body was nonsensical, responding to  _ him _ like this.

 

Oh, Ben Solo was going to get her into trouble yet.

 


	11. Chapter 11

It was almost soothing to be out of her apartment for the first time in two days, Rey absentmindedly tapping her fingers to an aria from the opera, the metal railing of the elevator clicking pleasantly under her manicure. Since Ben and the car had dropped her off after the opera-- always the gentleman, helping her with the car door, never assuming an invitation up to her apartment-- it had been stuck in her mind, something that almost drowned out the sound of her retching when she had woken in the middle of the night under attack from a stomach bug. 

 

As such, she had put herself under quarantine, only staying awake long enough to hydrate, medicate, graze and lumber back to bed. She hadn’t seen daylight since Friday evening, and so the Monday morning rays were warm and welcomed. In a moment, she stopped her tapping, the elevator dinging as it announced the floor number and rushed open.

 

Given what her life had become in the past two or so weeks, it shouldn’t have surprised Rey to have been greeted by hushed conversations and guilty, albeit interested looks when she stepped off the elevator today. However, she certainly wasn’t expecting the near silence, the lack of sound only punctuated by the flipping of newsprint, every eye seemingly trained on the  _ New York Times _ .

 

She had gotten up a bit later than planned, but no one seemed rushing forward to scold her, correct her, and so she frowned, plucking a copy to the  _ Times _ from the receptionist desk as she passed. Tucking it under her arm, she glanced down to her shoes, hearing an uptick of conversation, of worried whispers, as if she had picked up a live grenade instead. 

 

Well, she certainly wouldn’t be enjoying her lunchtime perusal of the paper, would she?

 

She was used to weird looks. As an orphan, she had become accustomed to pitying looks and confusion when she would escort herself somewhere where parents should have come with. As a  _ rich  _ orphan, she was quite used to the look of jealousy and resentment. 

 

Still, she wasn’t quite used to being looked at as if she had been infected by some flesh-eating disease, averted eyes and quick heel turns seemingly littered across the path to her office. She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, looking at her closed door and the muffled music blaring behind it, but dared to open it nevertheless.

 

If the main office space had been devoid of sound, it was because all the sound had been sucked into her office, where Rose had taken the liberty to strewn it with gaudy pink banners, heart balloons, and the like. Kaydel grinned at Rey from one of the desk chairs as Rose peeked out from behind several large bouquets of flowers-- roses, lilies, honeysuckles, tulips and more-- and crowed with excitement.

 

“There she is! Our little queen of the Lifestyle pages!” As if to add weight to her exclamation, she popped a small party-favor, a spurt of confetti littering out across the office floor.

 

If she could, Rey would have resolved herself right then and there to turn around, leave the office, flee to Boca Raton and never return, living out her life in hiding.

 

However, seeing that there would be a sizable amount of paperwork to deal with if she did, what with her own godmother suing her for breach of work contract, Rey merely sighed, stepped into her office, and shut the door behind her. 

 

“Looks like someone abused their guest pass privilege again,” she remarked dryly, skirting around the confetti mess to dump her bag in her other open guest chair. With quick hands, she unfolded the newspaper, plucking the lifestyle pages out. 

 

She frowned at her picture on the front page of the section, her frown deepening at the sight of Ben Solo’s hand on her waist. She didn’t need to look at the accompanying headline to know it was gaudier than the party streamers blocking her office lights. 

 

With a huff, she batted aside one of the balloons, tempted to sweep up a pair of scissors and skewer it. She didn’t, especially out of fear of possibly stabbing something--or someone-- else as Rose sang-song to her:

 

“Looks like someone missed our Saturday plans and Sunday brunch because she was getting dicked down.”

 

“‘Reyna Kenobi, goddaughter of acclaimed  _ Vogue _ editor Amilyn Holdo and the rising photography star for the magazine, was seen this past Friday on the arm of one Ben Solo, heir to the Skywalker fortune,’” Kaydel read aloud, legs crossed, red-lacquered lips curving up into a smile as Rose cackled. 

 

“‘With his past history and the swirl of rumors around his behavior in private, it shouldn’t surprise that the two made their debut as a couple to the background of the Met Opera’s production of  _ Don Giovanni.  _ This Don Juan and his Donna Elvira were styled by the capable hands of Poe Dameron, with other patrons to the arts feeling the heat of these young lovers’ looks and interactions…’ By the way, Poe is very pleased at the reception of your outfits. The tulips are from him.”

 

Rey cast an almost withering look to Kaydel and then the mentioned flowers. She circled the desk, shooing Rose from her seat. In a moment, she was sinking into it, displacing a rather large vase blocking her view and setting it down on the floor beside her. 

 

“Who are the rest from? And stop reading, Kaydel; last I checked, the  _ Times _ wasn’t  _ Cosmo _ .”

 

“You don’t  _ know _ ?! For spending all weekend with you, he can certainly keep a secret.” Rose passed over a few note cards, surely snapped up in excitement. “Ben Solo, you silly girl. Whatever you did in bed has him very enamoured. I didn’t know you had it in you, love.”

 

Rey scowled at the cards, each a variant of ‘Thank you for a night of passion, xoxo, Ben Solo.’ She crushed them in her fist, rounded on Rose and Kaydel.

 

“I didn’t sleep with him. He’s just being an ass.” 

 

“What do you mean, you didn’t sleep with him?” Rose frowned at Rey, balancing herself precariously on the edge of the vase-crowded desk, nodding a thanks to Kaydel as the assistant stylist handed her her iced coffee from the other side of the desk. “You missed our Saturday date. You never miss.”

 

No matter what was going on in their lives, the two women had Saturdays scheduled for each other, even if it meant flying halfway across the world for each other. Saturdays were reserved for window shopping, overindulgence and boy talk. Rey huffed a sigh, tried not to roll her eyes. 

 

“I was sick with a bug. Any rolling around I was doing was only hot because I was feverish.”

 

Really, it shouldn’t have surprised Rey that Ben Solo was up on the day’s discussion roster, but she didn’t want to spare more thoughts on him-- she already had spent the night tossing and turning, trying to get the feel of his lips off her hand. Needless to say, she needed a large iced coffee and maybe a time machine to go back in time and make sure this never became a problem.

 

“You could have told me, my sweet baby Rey. Really, Reyna, it’s not a big deal to tell people that you’re sick. We’re just here to help.” Rose had her brows furrowed in that motherly way that Rey hated, and the photographer wondered why she hadn’t called in sick like she could have.

 

“Don’t ‘Reyna’ me, Rosemary. You know how I hate being sick,” she harrumphed back, laying her head on the desk now, closing her eyes as if to chill of the desktop instead of avoiding her friend’s suspicious gaze.

 

“Fine, but still-- you weren’t even  _ tempted _ to sleep with him?” Kaydel brushed a bit of loose string off of her jeans, carefully ripped by some designer in Italy, and it occurred to Rey for the millionth time how odd it was to be out and about, acting as if they didn’t have the world offered up on a silver plate, as if they were regular millennials worrying about debt but hiding it behind a sunny photo filter, some humblebrag about their worklife. 

 

Sometimes, she would almost rather have that life-- it would mean some normalcy, a different set of problems, perhaps a grander sense of accomplishment... and she could have avoided meeting someone like Ben Solo altogether. Ben Solo, who had been so much easier to deal with when he was more of an abstract, annoying idea, and not a well-rounded person.

 

It had been so much easier to deal with him when she could be mad at him for merely existing. After all, if she knew the timeline right, he was starting to get into his peak of troublesomeness when her parents died, as if their irresponsibility was a demon who needed another host. 

 

She almost shuddered at the thought. No one, not even someone like Ben Solo, deserved that kind of fatal recklessness. Much like she didn’t need to be responsible for someone like him. She had been responsible for reckless people before. What had that left her?

 

Alone. It left her alone.

 

Still, she straightened up, shook her head, feeling her hair stick to her neck with sweat. These thoughts seemed to bring up only her nausea and bad memories, and she did not need to retch or cry. Mondays were already the worst-- she did not need them to get worse because she couldn’t handle some feelings or her stomach.

 

“I’m only human, guys. I  _ considered  _ what it would be like to have sex with Solo…” The two women beamed at her, pleased looks dissolving into exasperation as Rey finished her thought:

 

“...And after considering the pros and cons, I decided it was not worth crawling into bed with him. Heaven knows what I would catch.” She brushed her hair over her shoulder, shrugged flippantly.

 

“Like feelings, Reyna?” Rose rolled her eyes, reaching out to squeeze her hand. For now, Rey clung to the gesture as something to ground to, even if she pressed her lips in a thin line with displeasure now. “C’mon, baby-girl: aren’t you a little bit curious about what’s going on in his bedroom?”

 

“Nothing involving me, I can assure you. I’m only helping him get society’s approval by teaching him manners. Seeing that we made the  _ New York Times  _ Life section, I have already accomplished the former. It’s only business between him and I.” Rey pushed a vase out of the way a bit more, clearing a space for her work laptop.

 

Kaydel snorted, flipping through the pages of the paper, surely to find some photographic evidence to the contrary-- Rey really didn’t know when the paper had become so far gone to stoop to gossip-- but Rose kept her eyes on her face, quietly studying her.

 

Her words were soft, more of a coo than an accusation: “You have to like him just a little bit to be helping.”

 

“No, I have to be curious about my family to be helping him,” Rey replied stiffly, huffing at Rose and her hopeful look. “There is absolutely nothing between Solo and I, and I can promise that won’t change.”

 

Kaydel opened her mouth, her finger pointing to some colored picture--  _ a waste of ink, we were in black and white, _ Rey scoffed to herself-- but fell into silence, her head swiveling back as the office door opened, as the stern visage of Amilyn Holdo came into view. The editor frowned, hand resting lightly on the doorknob as she surveyed the room, the unfortunate party decorations.

 

“Reyna? A word please?” With that, she was turning away, her high heels clicking, drowning out the forlorn sigh of her goddaughter. 

 

“Great. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go convince my parental unit that I do not need an STI screening or therapy because of Ben Solo.” Rey pushed herself up,  circling the desk quickly. “If either of you planned to surprise me with a cake, or a stripper, or god forbid, both, I suggest you halt your celebration plans and consider helping me clean the shit off the fan.”

 

The door clicked after Rey as she hurried after Amilyn, and Rose frowned at Kaydel, looking almost thoughtful. “Did we have anything arranged like that?”

 

“Yes and no. Poe insisted that he doesn’t jump out of cakes anymore, and that if he did, we couldn’t afford him,” Kaydel answered dryly, fishing her phone from her pocket. “However, I did arrange with Finnegan to bring that cake you custom ordered from that Cake Boss guy in New Jersey.”

 

“Oh god.” Rose blanched, leaning forward, as if to peek at Kaydel’s messages. “Can you make sure Finn doesn’t make it into the building with that? New Jersey folks can be vulgar, especially when you instruct them to decorate a cake to congratulate someone on ending their dry spell.” 

 

“On it. Heaven forbid Holdo crosses the path of a frosting and red velvet rendering of Ben Solo and his penis. Heads would roll.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rey had always liked her godmother’s office. It was airy, minimalist, white like the crisp and clean sheets at the Ritz Carlton. When she was younger, before the accident, she had often been set up at a miniature desk next to Amilyn’s diligently coloring and putting together her own version of the September issue, the busy editor somehow finding time in her schedule to babysit her.

 

In hindsight, Rey was aware that her parents had issues with time management and responsibility, that the reason Amilyn had been named as godmother, as guardian, was because the Kenobi parents were liable to forget to pick their child up from daycare due to working late or attending one of a million parties they were invited to. Still, Amilyn’s office usually meant safety, security, someone on her side.

 

So to be on the other side of the desk, instead of at her godmother’s side, Rey could easily see how a former intern could go out and write  _ The Devil Wears Prada  _ based on Amilyn. 

 

Amilyn didn’t seem to slow as she paced behind her desk, brow furrowed, mouth tight. Rey chose to look at her shoes, cataloguing the miniscule scuffs that the designer leather had taken on from everyday wear. She jerked her head up as she heard her godmother falter in her steps, her French manicured clutching the back of her chair fiercely, as if it was someone’s neck.

 

“Tell me, Reyna: are you acting out a decade late? Have you gotten around to your teenage rebellion? Because honestly, I am wracking my brain for the possible reasons you agreed to be seen with Ben Solo-- the spawn of Satan, as we confirmed the other day-- and photographed.”

 

“Auntie--” Rey’s voice was weak, and she bit her lip as Amilyn continued, as if she hadn’t heard.

 

“You’ve never misbehaved before, and I suppose I should be glad that you made the  _ Times  _ and not the New York Post or some other trashy little periodical that calls itself a newspaper-- but this makes no sense, Reyna. None whatsoever. And you missed our brunch yesterday, and now I’m wondering if you--” Amilyn frowned at the scoff from Rey’s lips, casting her eyes to the younger woman as she shook her head.

 

“No, no-- stop right there.” Rey straightened her back, taking a deep breath, something she had learned from years of debate club, being the good little girl Amilyn seemed to think had run away. “First of all, I am helping him because he asked politely, and because he said he would help me find my family… if there’s any left.”

 

“Second, I am twenty-six, control of my own trust fund, and still showed up to work today. I am far past teenage rebellion, but even if I was indulging in it late, you know that I would have squandered all of my money on cheap booze and gigolos, like my mother did back in the nineties.” 

 

She watched Amilyn’s mouth gape, and she rolled her eyes. Her own research lead her to those articles, and assured her that she was doing quite alright in the behavior department, despite the leave of absence her logic had seemingly taken.

 

“Last, I was sick this weekend, which lead to me missing brunch. If I’ve been irresponsible at all in the past 72 hours, it’s me being here and possibly exposing everyone to my germs. However, I’m sure that I simply ate some bad chicken, so even now I’m not that irresponsible.” 

 

Rey was quite aware that she was glaring at her godmother, whose shoulders had squared, her lips pressed into a hard, thin line. Still, she jutted her chin out, almost daring the woman-- her only family, her boss, her greatest supporter-- to correct her, to tell her that she was mistaken.

 

Instead, Amilyn sighed, pulling out her chair and sitting. “What on earth are you helping Ben Solo with? I believe you said that Armitage Hux was his babysitter…”

 

“I’m teaching him manners. He asked me to. He wants to mend his family ties, and thought that I could help him best.” Rey didn’t sit-- she hadn’t been invited to, so she folded her hands behind her back, as if she was a soldier waiting to be put at ease.

 

“He’s a hopeless case. You know that, yes?” Amilyn studied her goddaughter, how neutral her face was, as if she was keeping it all in, like a mask. She hadn’t seen this look since Rey’s parents had been buried, and so she worried. She couldn’t help it.

 

She had raised the girl, tried to equip her with the sense that her parents had lacked, set her up for something more than partying and spending and living meaninglessly. No one remembered Rey’s parents beyond her and Rey herself-- because they had wasted their lives in pursuit of pleasure. 

 

She didn’t want that for Rey, and to see her hitch her horse to Ben Solo’s carriage, his pleasure cruising ways… she was on edge. 

 

Seeing Rey set her lips, her jaw working lightly, as if personally insulted, Amilyn couldn’t help but wonder what she was actually chasing. There were better ways to get answers. More solid, more substantial, more assured. 

 

“How do you know he’s not just trying to get you into his bed, Reyna? You’re just as well aware of his past behavior as I am.”

 

“Emphasis on ‘ _ past  _ behavior,’ Auntie.” Rey frowned, her heart rate spiking. “People can change. They can learn to be better.”

 

“Maybe so. But not Ben Solo.” Amilyn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I just don’t want you to invest time and interest into someone that will just disappoint you.”

 

“He won’t disappoint me. In fact,” Rey puffed up her chest, looking all too confident, “I can prove you wrong at dinner on Friday. I’ll show you that he can hold his own at the dinner table with a bunch of blue bloods.”

 

A slim eyebrow raised in response to the claim, Amilyn humming. “You’re bluffing.”

 

“You’re curious.” Rey grinned, quickly stepping to the desk and pressing her finger to the intercom button. “Jess? Can you please call and make a reservation for… hmm, why not six? For Friday evening at Restaurant Daniel. Name drop if you need to.” 

 

She knew that she had her godmother’s attention now, a smile almost quirking on her lips. “Six? Whoever would you want to invite?”

 

“A few other nonbelievers. I suggest you brush up on your small talk, Auntie, because if all goes as planned, you’ll be sitting next to Leia Organa.”

 

As she turned away, headed to the door, ignoring the bitter chuckle from her godmother, Rey knew that her risk was dangerous, that she was putting a lot more than money on this bet. However, she was certain of one thing.

 

If Ben Solo knew what was good for him, he would not disappoint her. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is ready for some more ANGST?!
> 
> Just a quick warning: this chapter involves Ben hooking up with someone other than Rey. It's not cheating (as they're both single/not together), but if you don't like situations like this, I understand.
> 
> There is a quote rather early on from "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald, from chapter nine, I believe. Obviously, that's not mine.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and again, thank you for reading!

Right now, Ben Solo was very aware that he was fucking everything up.

 

Maybe not the big things-- while he knew that he should be doing more to lessen his carbon footprint, he also knew that playing tonsil hockey with the hostess of this upper crust bistro in west Manhattan probably wasn't releasing more greenhouse gases into the atmosphere and destroying the ozone layer as he (barely) knew it.

 

Probably. He had never been an attentive student.

 

He could say that he was an attentive lover though, his large hands on slipping and shifting and cradling and caressing, coaxing a few breathless moans, a mewl, a gasp, out of the woman underneath him in this bathroom stall. Her name was something with an "r": Rebecca, Renata, Rachel?

 

Fuck, he didn't even know her name.

 

To him though, it was okay that she was nameless. He wouldn't see her again, probably. She had flirted with him enough, gazed at him with enough heat in her eyes that when he couldn't stand to hear another word about proper tablecloths  and what a fish fork was, she easily followed him to the bathroom when he had caught her by the wrist and tugged her along.

 

Her being nameless meant that he could be as reckless and careless as he needed to be for the moment. There was surely some consequences for his actions, but he didn't care. The rich never dealt with consequences, for better or worse.

 

It should make him feel guilty, but he didn't mind.

 

That was typical, wasn't it? It was expected from him. It was like that line from the Great Gatsby, one of the only books he felt like he had understood in high school… because they might as well have been talking about him. And his parents.

 

How did that passage go again? Oh, right:

 

_They were careless people, Tom and Daisy- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made._

 

Those lines alone almost made him feel as understood as when he read about Holden Caulfield and his disdain of phonies.

 

It was all true, wasn't it?

 

He had never been taught to care, only to make messes. Messes were what life was focused around, right? You either cleaned up messes, or you made the mess to be cleaned. Push and pull. Balance, how the world worked, how it was meant to be.

 

Right?

 

He asked himself this as he let himself be backed into the handicap stall's corner, heard the clicking of women's heels and scandalized whispering over the noise he and Raquel (?) were making, felt his jacket be pushed off his shoulders.

 

She had asked that he wore a jacket. Well, not exactly. Reyna Kenobi, once she got an idea in her head, seemed to forget how to ask people nicely to do much of anything. For some reason, this week, she got it into her head that they all should sit down to dinner together on Friday-- him, her, her godmother, his family. Like some perverse farce of meeting the parents.

 

A seven course meal, in an upscale restaurant that required you to wear a smoking jacket or better, to be clean and pristine and good and all the things he wasn't, with people who really didn't like him and didn't have much of a reason to. To top it all off, she had to teach him how to feed himself "properly," as if he didn't know how to use a fork and knife.

 

No wonder he considered stabbing his charms teacher as a child, instead terrorizing the poor woman until she had a nervous breakdown and retired. Ben didn't do polite or well behaved. He would eat how he pleased, thank you very much.

 

He almost asked her why last Friday hadn't been enough. He had behaved well enough. He had escorted her, made do with the gossip swirling around them, done the honorable thing and not tried to wheedle his way up into her bed. He had performed for the cameras, looked charming and handsome, made the other spectators believe that he was turning a new leaf.

 

And he thought he had-- at least, with her. He twisted the hostess's curls around his fingers, tugged her close, letting their mouths collide in a sloppy, teeth filled kiss. Something cruel, something feral, something like the thorny knot in his chest.  She giggled, and he smiled.

 

Why Rey expected more from him, he didn't understand. He should be teaching her things--how to kiss, how to touch, how to _fuck._ Except she didn't seem at all interested in that, and so he had to take measures into his own hands.

 

Behaving was boring. He didn't understand how she could stand being so boring, how she wasn't boring despite her behavior. _She probably grew up on gold stars, and pats on the head. Girl has a praise kink, that's for damn sure._

 

As if to confirm his thought, reassure his reasoning, his hips twitched, his hips rutting and grinding his hardness into the hostess-- he had given up on trying to remember her name-- and smirked when she hissed and cursed under her breath.

 

He certainly hadn't been praised enough, and he could almost see how addicting that prospect could be. Getting told that you're good enough, even better than good enough, day after day? Shit, sign him up. He was long overdue.

 

 _You could be getting told that, but you keep fucking up, Benny-boy._ The thought was his own, as was that voice whispering in the base of his skull, pawing at his mind's door like the Big Bad Wolf surely did at Little Red Riding Hood's house. He kissed the woman harder now, focusing on how his hands slipped over her white buttons, growling that he _should have ripped it open to get to her pretty tits, that_ he _could buy her a thousand new shirts, all silk too._

 

Her breathy laugh didn't drown out the voice though. It seemed to heighten it.

 

Ben didn't like focusing on the could-have-beens, not when they had long become never-going-to-happens. He had been told that he was smart all through elementary and middle school. Back when he tried, back when he thought something could come of talking to your parents.

 

But they were too busy. They didn't have _time_ to come to parent-teacher conferences, not if he was behaving well enough, doing well enough. They didn't have _time_ to ask him what he wanted for his birthday, thinking that a Rolex and access to the family credit cards would make up for any family dinner he thought about asking for and then swallowed down.

 

What they lacked in time, they made up in money. It definitely wasn't the same though. In this equation, x did not equal y. There was a fallacy hidden somewhere, and he didn't really care to solve the equation nowadays.

 

When he was in eighth grade, he learned that bad behavior equaled time. He didn't know that it didn't equal time with _them,_ but Uncle Luke was better than nothing, right? At least someone was interested in what he was doing day to day.

 

Then Luke had suggested sending Ben to military school, or maybe to study abroad, somewhere that wasn't there. _He's taking up too much of my time,_  Luke had said.

 

So time didn't equal love after all.

 

He wondered how long he had been in the bathroom for, if Rey had noticed. If she had, she surely was either looking for him or had abandoned him.

 

After all, it was a Tuesday, and heaven forbid someone ruin Rey Kenobi's Tuesday.

 

He wanted to be mad at her. He really did. He pushed the hostess's bra up, suckled at one of her nipples, heard her cry as she pulled his hair.

 

He wanted to be mad at Rey Kenobi… but he wasn't, was he? Of course not, how could he be? She had simply whisked into his life like a well put together hurricane, made him _feel things,_ made him _feel guilty,_ made him _apologize_.   

 

She was the reason he was spending his evening in a restaurant with a menu that was written almost exclusively in French, trying to memorize each and every rule of dining, all because she had a point to make, an ego to stroke.

 

He almost admired that fact, almost related, but then she had scolded him for hiding food in his cloth napkin, and he simply had enough.

 

He focused in suddenly on the situation he was in as he felt his belt being unbuckled, the hostess dropping to her knees on the blue tiled floor with a smirk. It was one of the more hotter things he had seen in a while, but he was still thinking of Rey.

 

"Are you going to show me which fork I should stab myself with?" He had asked when they sat down. She was in a black dress, something far simpler, far more buttoned up, then her look on Friday. He shivered at the thought still, remembering how powerful she had looked that night, as if she could squash him like a bug for stepping out of line.

 

He could almost believe that clothes made the man or woman now.

 

Back at the table, she had frowned at him, her eyes brightening even still. "No. You're better to me alive than dead. However, if you're ever confused about what utensil to use, start from the outside, and count your way in. For instance, if you're on your second course, use the second fork to the outside."

 

_Only three courses' worth of silverware at a time-- if you have more than three courses, the appropriate silverware will be provided with the food._

 

_Food enters the way it came in. If you are eating with your fingers-- like eating a cherry or something-- you can use your fingers to take the pit out of your mouth. Likewise, if you are eating something with your fork, try to spit it on your fork._

 

_If you simply don't like the food, though, you're expected to swallow the bite you have._

 

_You hold your fork in your left hand when cutting food, right hand when you are eating it._

 

_Napkin on lap at all times. It's okay to leave your napkin on your chair if you plan to come back-- otherwise, put it loosely on the left side of your plate._

 

Ben groaned, but it wasn't from the teasing kisses the hostess was peppering his waist with, untucking his shirt as she tugged at his belt. Apparently he had been listening more than what he thought.

 

Leave it to Rey Kenobi to have him frantically trying to remember if he left his napkin on his chair or his plate moments before he received a blowjob.

 

A movement from the hostess, her flattening her warm palm across the front of his pants, across his cock, had him jerking back in surprise, a moan blurting unbidden from his lips. _"Reyna."_

 

Suddenly, the hostess froze in her ministrations, her preparations, head snapping up like a scared deer hearing the snap of a branch under some hunter's foot. Ben knew it wasn't because he had said someone else's name, though he was going to kick himself for that later too. No, there was something else.

 

He listened now too, feeling oddly exposed even though the woman before him had barely begun to toy at his zipper.

 

There was definitely someone outside the bathroom stall. And she was waiting for them. Another beat of silence, and Ben wondered if she was holding her breath too, wishing that the circumstances were different.

 

But then she sighed, and rapped her knuckles swiftly and solidly against the bathroom stall door.

 

"If you're quite finished, I need to talk to Ben. Alone."

 

He had fucked up in many ways before today. Today, he knew this put them all to shame.

 

* * *

 

Rey could barely stand to look at him when he finally exited the stall, tucking in his shirt as if it wasn't wrinkled, buckling his belt as if he wasn't just being blown by the hostess of the quietest French bistro in town.

 

So much for that-- she'd be lucky if the place wasn't swarming with paparazzi with how prone to gossip the staff could be. She marked this spot off a list in her head, put it in a different category--places to avoid, natch-- and turned to Ben, her arms crossed.

 

The hostess had slipped past her without a word, wiping a stray smear of lipstick from under her bottom lip. The look she gave Rey had been disdainful, pouty, and the heiress had been tempted to ask for her manager right then and there.

 

She had bigger fish to fry, however, and she spared a glance at Ben, finally. "Was it worth it?"

 

"Was what worth it?" He asked, leaning against the bathroom wall, sullen, not meeting her eyes. He probably was hoping that she hadn't heard her name on her lips, and unfortunately, it seemed like the only common ground she could find with him.

 

"Sneaking off, getting handsy with the wait staff. If you cared enough about etiquette, I'm sure you'd know or at least could guess that it's frowned upon to do that." She frowned at him, wondered why it felt like her heart was shifting, cracking like glacier ice before a chunk fell off from global warming and the like.

 

Was this jealousy? She couldn’t be sure. Last she checked, she didn’t want Ben Solo anywhere near her, definitely did not need him in her life. But she knew that the swirl of emotions spinning in her gut was more than secondhand shame and anger, more than disappointment. Her heart was hurting, and she didn’t want to know why.

 

Not when she was trying to get the sounds of him moaning for someone else-- _but saying her name_ \-- out of her head.

 

"Maybe you should quiz me, Reyna-- make sure that I was listening." His mumble barely registered, his smirk was half hearted, and he still didn't look at her, looking at his dress shoes instead. He looked exactly like a man who was used to having anger thrown at him, and so she couldn’t tell how sincere he was or not in this moment, not when he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

 

She wanted to demand his attention, scream for him to look at her, but then she glanced at his neck, saw the sorry attempt at a Windsor knot, and her throat thickened.

 

"What's the point? You don't want to be here anyways." The silence was palatable, thicker than humidity and all the more suffocating. His gaze snapped to her and she scowled.

 

"I don't want your excuses. If you didn't want to be here, you should have just told me. I'm helping you for your sake. Not mine."

 

" _My_ sake?! You're the one using me to search for your family!" He bit back, but she just stared at him blankly, bemused.

 

" _You_ asked for my help. Not the other way around." She turned, stalking towards the door, wondering why there was a burn of tears biting at her eyelids. _He means nothing to you. You never have to see him again after this. You have no claim to stake. You’re not his and he’s not yours._

 

"Was she fun, Ben?" She stared at the doorknob, almost trying to will it to lock, to keep her trapped, to speak her mind. What would she say that he hadn't heard before, though?

 

She was sure someone else had called him useless, told him that he didn't actually want to change, that he was going to die alone. Then again, maybe she was just projecting what the little voice in her head said. She couldn't be sure.

 

Rey didn't need to glance at him to know he was back to examining his shoes, his mumble low. "She was fun enough, I suppose."

 

"You suppose? Really, Ben-- you call the poor girl by the name of the woman you're trying to avoid and you can only say she was 'fun enough?'" Rey snorted, shaking her head, her next directive clear, even though it was mumbled under her breath. "Go to hell."

 

She knew that she should stay, ask him why he did this, why he felt the need to pour himself into some passionate moment when he was bored and had nothing better to do (in his opinion). Ask herself why her heart was twisting up like it did when she felt lied to, cheated, betrayed. She expected to be more angry, to tell, and scream, and shake him.

 

She only felt tired.

 

"Don't bother coming on Friday-- I can't save you if you don't even want to save yourself," she tossed back over her shoulder, like a tip solely made up of loose change, littering across the floor, waiting for him to confront it, pick it up.

 

_You knew from the start he was bad news, that he couldn't save himself. Why did you try, silly girl?_

 

She didn't have an answer for the voice in her head, and she let herself slip into autopilot, steering herself out of the bathroom, to her server, informing him that her companion would pay for dinner as she had an emergency. She avoided the hostess's eyes as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, her hand lifting blindly to hail a cab. The next steps were simple, easy to manage, the World Trade Center and Conde Nast being well known enough that her taxi driver didn't need to clarify-- he just shut up and drove.

 

She didn't cry the entire time, and she could congratulate herself for that later, paying her fare and shooting out of the car, hurtling into the building with desperate agency. But not once did she cry.

 

The moment she saw Amilyn stepping out onto the ground floor from the elevator, iconic sunglasses shielding her eyes, surely hiding her surprise as she gasped.. Only then did she break. Rey flung herself into her godmother's arms, not caring about the mess of papers surrounding them, the formidable stack flying from Amilyn's hands when she went to receive her.

 

Now Rey was crying, and the only thing that made sense was her godmother's soothing cooing, her hand carding through her hair, quiet questions for information when she was ready.

 

"You were right," Rey mumbled, sniffling and trying not to get the cashmere of Amilyn's sweater matted.

 

"About what, starshine?"

 

"He's not going to change. He can't-- he won't. It's a waste of my time." Rey grit her teeth, hissed her words. "I hate him."

 

"You need time away from him," Amilyn murmured, neither agreeing or disagreeing, leading her goddaughter to the front doors. "You're spending the night, and we'll figure this out tomorrow, okay, starshine?"

 

Details could come later, the editor decided, looking into the red-rimmed eyes of her crying goddaughter, the slightly runny nose, how deep and dark and sad her hazel eyes were. It wasn’t unlike how she looked when her parents had departed, how she looked after sobbing and cursing them for leaving her, for not caring enough to stay. The thought made Amilyn press a kiss to her goddaughter’s hair, feeling Rey tremble at the gentleness.

 

For the moment, Reyna just needed someone to be a little bit more careful with her.

 

After all, that's the problem with careless people-- they'll leave anyone with a heart smashed and broken in their wake, intentionally or not.

 

People who made messes were always more dangerous than the ones who fixed them, and while Rey was by no means naive, it was certainly time for her to learn that.


	13. Chapter 13

One of the most common reviews that Ben had heard about himself from several publications, a slew of past girlfriends and by Armitage more than once was that he had no shame. None whatsoever, almost as if the man had been born without fucks to give. The same had been said about his father, but last he checked, his father hadn’t done something as stupid or as anal as he had less than three days ago, in a five star restaurant that he probably would have to avoid for the rest of his life.

 

“Y’know, one of these days, something is going to happen, and it’s going to make you feel like shit. I can’t wait for that to happen,” his last, more serious girlfriend Bazine had snapped at him before she left for the last time. At that time, he had laughed it off, much like the Trojans had laughed off the prophetess Cassandra when she predicted their disaster.

 

To be fair, he hadn’t expected his downfall, his Trojan Horse, to be his own idiocy, but he had a feeling that no one else was surprised.

 

He glared up at the mirror a younger and cockier him had hung over his bed, his reflection casting the disapproval back down. “I feel like shit now, Baz. Happy?”

 

It had been about two days, twelve hours and maybe 45 minutes since he had been left in a French bistro on the east side of Manhattan, his belt barely buckled, his dignity no more. Give or take a few seconds.

 

He’d admit that he was counting. He hadn’t been doing much else since he had stumbled his way into a cab, found his way back to his apartment.

 

When he was younger, wilder, somehow more careless than he had just been, he would have ripped his apartment to shreds, destroyed any trace of order and tidiness. When he had set his keys clattering down on the entryway table, he seriously considered it, his gaze ticking over his possessions, as if to preemptively catalogue everything before his mother surely filed an insurance claim to replace it all.

 

Back when his anger counted as “an act of God” by the family’s insurance brokers, he would have started with the grand piano, maybe smashing the keys, maybe scratching the lacquered mahogany. He’d rip apart the couch cushions, smash a few vases, throw something through the tv, try to crack the window with his fist.

 

Tuesday night though, he just looked across his dark penthouse and took stock in how lonely, how empty, how unforgiving it was. He usually kept it filled with other people, kept it lit, kept it busy. To have it busy meant he didn’t have to confront any of his own thoughts or anything of the like.

 

That night, he let the thoughts sink into him, occupy his tired mind. There were many, there was a lot, there was too much. He had done a lot of bad things in the past, and this was just the cherry on top of the shit milkshake he had made. He didn't push away the thoughts though. He deserved the flood of guilt, especially after he saw the light of Rey’s eyes dim when she looked at him.

 

She hadn't been surprised, and that possibly killed him the most when he played the moment back.

 

She hadn’t looked at him in disgust, or anger, or even disappointment. She had only looked tired, beaten, and he could only imagine the stream of thoughts trickling through her mind about him now. 

 

She had wanted him to prove everyone, including her, wrong. And he hadn’t.

 

Maybe he had a good reason to disappoint her-- she had been trying too hard to make him something that he wasn’t, instead of standing by and letting him do it himself. She probably meant well, but forcing something to be another thing-- forcing something from nothing-- never came out well.

 

She reminded him of those over ambitious kids who insisted on social media that they can make a diamond out of a piece of charcoal, some peanut butter and a microwave. And he was the end result of the failed experiment, a literal trash-fire. 

 

It was fine. He didn’t expect less.

 

So no, he didn’t try to improve anything on Tuesday night. He barely shucked off his suit before he crawled into bed that night, the fine fabric of his button down wrinkling into oblivion. 

 

He didn’t try on Wednesday, or Thursday either, not bothering to leave bed unless he absolutely had to. He didn’t dare look at his phone, hearing it trill in his jacket pocket until it eventually died. Ben could guess who was calling-- his mother, Armitage, maybe even Amilyn Holdo.

 

But not Rey-- so it didn’t matter.

 

He wished that he could say that his time in bed was productive, that he figured out how to end world hunger and become a better person, right all the wrongs he had wrought on society, how to ask for and receive the forgiveness he was craving each time he woke up before rolling over in resignation.

 

But no, he couldn’t say any of that. He couldn’t even say that he had slept well, aware of how deep and dark the bags under his eyes were, feeling the itch of a five o clock shadow growing in. He scowled at his reflection again, and then rolled to his left side, away from his bedroom door. There was a shuffle somewhere behind him, a creak, but he closed his eyes, not bothering to investigate. 

 

“Are you  _ fucking  _ kidding me, Solo?” 

 

Ben jolted up, head whipping around, Armitage glaring at him from his doorway. He rubbed his eyes, wondered if he was going mad, but then the man was storming over, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him.

 

“Have you been using? Jesus fucking _ Christ,  _ you look like shit. Have you been using, yes or no?” 

 

“Fuck,  _ no.  _ Get your hands off me, Hux,” Ben snapped back, shoving his friend away with a grimace, scoffing at the suspicious look that he was still being treated to. “I was already fucking stupid this week. I don’t fucking need to relapse on top of it.”

 

“Seeing that you haven’t been answering your phone, I expected to find you dead in an alley in Brooklyn!” Armitage ran a hand through his hair, restless, frown deepening as Ben snorted at him.

 

“Please, if I plan to die of an overdose, I’ll do it in Atlantic City like any self-respecting rich douchebag.” That earned him a swat upside his head, but still, Armitage sighed after dealing the blow, sitting next to Ben on the rumpled sheets. 

 

“You fucking reek, man.” Ben chuckled, Armitage’s nose wrinkling for dramatic effect now as the two exchanged a look. Armitage’s eyes softened, and he lightly bumped his friend with his shoulder. “What the fuck happened, Solo?”

 

"Didn't she tell you? Fuck, she probably went running to you the minute she left," Ben huffed, a small bit of unrighteous jealousy flickering up and then snuffing out as soon as Armitage rolled his eyes.

 

"I haven't seen Rey since you crashed my tea date with her, asshole. Her godmother--"

 

"So you admit it was a date?"

 

"Jesus  _ Christ _ , Solo, not the time and definitely not the point." Armitage growled at Ben, the latter lapsing into silence now. "Her godmother called me this morning, asked me to check on you before I went to the office today. I planned to anyways, seeing that you haven't been answering my texts, but Ms. Holdo seems to be very anxious to talk to you."

 

"Well, yeah. I almost got a blowjob from a waitress during a night out with her goddaughter. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a hit out on me." Ben eyes his friend suspiciously, pursing his lips. "In fact, how do I know she hasn't sent you to kill me?"

 

"Solo, you know me well enough to know that, if I was going to kill you, I'd pull an  _ American Psycho  _ and force you to listen to Huey Lewis and the News before I murder you," Armitage muttered dryly, rolling his eyes at Ben's snicker.

 

"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?" Ben smirked.

 

"Not that much until I heard about what happened on Tuesday." The two fell silent at that, but in a moment, Armitage mumbled, "It got that bad, huh? That you went back to what you knew?"

 

"I'm not proud of it," Ben confessed, rubbing a hand against his chin, feeling the grit of hair that was growing there. Damn, he was a mess. "I just kept asking myself, before and after, if there was any point to all this time she was pouring into it. All the effort."

 

He laughed bitterly, staring straight ahead, out of the wide window encompassing the east wall. In the distance, he could see the sun mid-ascent, the dark night air fading into purple, then blue, then periwinkle, so many shades before it all escaped into the umber ring around the sun. Despite himself, he hoped that Rey was seeing the sunrise too. Someone like her deserved something beautiful after she saw the ugly side of things.

 

"My own family doesn't want to deal with me. I'm a lost cause to them, and I was alright with that. But then I met her, and I was tempted to do better." He paused, looked to his knees. "I wasn't made to be better. I don't know why I acted like I could be. I was going to slip up one way or another."

 

Armitage remained silent, but Ben didn't mind. They had played the game of confessor with each other before. This was just another step in their routine, and so he turned back to the window, to where Armitage was gazing, and remained quiet as well.

 

Perhaps only a minute passed by. Maybe an hour. Hux finally sighed and looked back at Ben. "You already know what you have to do to fix this, right?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Ben stretched his arms overhead, feeling the cracks and pops his joints made, shuddering now at the feeling, and the prospect on his mind. "I need to apologize."

 

"Yes, you do." Another beat of silence and then Armitage clapped his hands against his knees before standing up, brow set. "Alright. We gotta get you up and over to the Vogue offices. This is an apology best made in person."

 

He sniffed, nose wrinkling again. "It's also an apology best made after a shower and brushing your teeth. You smell absolutely vile."

 

"Thanks, Armitage." The remark was small, and if he hadn't been listening, he would have assumed the words were sarcastic, but from the knitting of Ben's brows, he knew it wasn't. 

 

Maybe there had been some progress made after all.

 

* * *

 

The  _ Vogue  _ offices sat bare this particular Friday, the silence threatening to overtake the atmosphere of the entire building if it had its way. Amilyn was well aware of how loud her typing seemed to be without the backdrop of chatter, excitement, haughty voices and fashion breakthroughs, but she quite liked it. 

 

In fact, if she hadn’t given everyone the day off due to the unusual circumstances that were inviting Ben Solo by for a little chat, she would consider doing this every Friday. 

 

Since Tuesday’s disaster, Amilyn had dispatched Rey to Paris, with Rose in tow. Even though her goddaughter insisted that she didn’t need a vacation, the editor had made it clear to Rose to keep her busy, take her shopping, go sunbathing, pamper themselves. She cited to Rey that there was a problem with the usual modeling agency that they worked with, that there was no one to work on a photoshoot until the coming week.

 

The promise of work had seemed to shush Rey, and Amilyn sighed at her laptop, wondering how responsible she was in giving a Rey an “all work and no play” mindset. This would never do.

 

“Ms. Holdo?” Her eyes sprang to her open door, where Ben Solo-- nervous, almost timid, seemingly trying to shrink despite his large frame. Amilyn was about four inches shorter than him in flats, almost equal in heels, and she had a feeling that she was going to have the upper hand in this conversation. That wouldn’t do either.

 

“Oh, good, I see Armitage was able to get a hold of you. Please sit.” She gestured to the chair that his mother had occupied a little more than a week prior, the man plopping down into the seat. As he looked down at his hands, looking like a student waiting to be scolded by the principal, she quickly looked him over.

 

Oh yes, he would make the perfect replacement for the model she supposedly couldn’t book for Rey’s photoshoot. 

 

“Ms. Holdo, I’m sor--”

 

“Oh please, you don’t need to apologize to me, Benjamin.” She flitted a hand at him, batting away the apology, his brown eyes fastened on her in shock, his mouth gaping. “I really should be apologizing to you.”

 

“I..wait, what?” He grimaced, his hand tugging at the sleeves of his blazer from nerves, and she spared him a smile.

 

“You heard me correctly. Although you should definitely apologize to Reyna, and she should apologize to you, you’re not here to talk about that.” She hummed, looking at her laptop, clicking over onto another tab, a flight confirmation number flashing before her eyes. “At least, not right now.”

 

“I don’t think I completely understand. I really should apologize to… a lot of people.” Ben’s brow furrowed, and despite herself, Amilyn chuckled.

 

“Maybe so, but I certainly don’t deserve to be the first stop on your apology tour.” She leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers and then folded her hands together, finally looking at him again. “What do you know about Rey’s parents?”

 

“That they’re dead. And they apparently had good genetics, considering how Rey is,” he mumbled blankly, quirking an eyebrow. He definitely didn’t know where this was going, and for that, Amilyn was grateful.

 

“Yes, there is something to be said about nature versus nurture sometimes. Although, there wasn’t a lot of nurturing from their side of things. Will and Kira didn’t exactly know how to take care of anyone, let alone a child.” Amilyn frowned, shaking her head. 

 

“I basically raised Rey even before her parents were dead, and I have a feeling that, behind closed doors, she was raising her parents, up until the day they died. They were so very, very young when Rey was born, and they didn’t seem to realize that they needed to moderate their habits, their partying, their spending.”

 

She glanced at Ben, not realizing that her gaze had become focused on her hands. It was always easier to look away when she talked of Will and Kira, the beautiful, careless fools they were, but the man across the desk from her kept his attention rapt on her words.

 

“Will had a falling out with his father, Reuben Kenobi, months before he married Kira.” Amilyn shook her head, smiled bitterly. “I was Rey’s age when she was born, and I had always been a family friend, more like an older sister to Will than anything, so me being named godmother was inevitable and a safeguard, since there’s a good chance old Ben Kenobi has no idea that he has a granddaughter.” 

 

“Where is he now?” Ben asked, his fingers stilling, his breath catching in his throat as the editor looked at him, her mouth a downturned, firm line.

 

“I don’t know,” Amilyn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, leaning forward onto the desk now as she spoke. 

“The last I checked, he lived in Britain. When they had their falling out, I sided with Will instead of his father, and so he cut me off as well. I sometimes wonder if I picked the losing side, especially with how Will went off the rails… but then I remember that Rey came from the mess, and I think maybe I won after all. Some way, somehow.”  

 

She rested her chin on her hand, huffing to herself. “Although, I accidentally gave the girl a savior complex and fucked her up in a different way than her parents would have.”

 

“So that’s why she wanted to help me so bad? Because I remind her of her parents.” Ben slumped back in his chair, feeling as if he had been suckerpunched, as if all the breath in his lungs had decided they had somewhere else to be and abandoned him. 

 

“In a word, yes. While I can’t say whether or not they hooked up with any of the waitstaff at a favorite restaurant,” she looked pointedly at Ben, who seemed to have enough shame to flush, “She saw their recklessness in you. You scare her in a way, I think.”

 

“How? I’ve never done anything to purposely scare her, or anything all that dangerous around her..” He let the words drift as Amilyn lifted her hand to hush him.

 

“You scare her because she knows that she can’t save you, like she couldn’t save them. They chose not to prioritize their lives, or hers, when they decided to drive drunk that New Year’s Eve. She doesn’t want the same thing to happen to you.” 

 

There was more to say there, Amilyn knew, but it wasn’t her place to say it. After all, how do you explain to a man that your goddaughter had tried to intervene the night of his accident, had called you crying the next morning, mumbling things not unlike what she had mumbled after her parents’ accident? That she told him to be safe, told him not to drive, asked him if his friends would miss him, didn’t understand why he didn’t care.

 

If Ben Solo didn’t care enough, then Rey Kenobi cared all too much, and it was an unhealthy extreme on both sides. But they would have to learn that on their own. It wasn’t Amilyn’s business. 

 

She shook her head, shook herself free of the thought, considered Ben, who now sat in silence, absorbing the information. Amilyn sighed, reaching across the desk to pat his shoulder, muttering softly: 

 

“So yes, I should apologize to you, because I only encouraged her behavior, especially when it came to you. I pushed her a little too hard on Monday, which lead to her insisting on Tuesday, which lead to… this… clusterfuck, for lack of a better word.”

 

“I accept your apology, but this doesn’t help me apologize to Rey.” His jaw worked, his brow set in determination, a look that Amilyn smiled at. “Is she in her office? I can go to her right now.”

“She is  _ not  _ in her office.” Amilyn smirked at the confused lift of Ben’s brows, explaining now. “She’s in Paris, though I certainly appreciate the energy you want to put into this.”

 

With a slim finger, she tapped on her laptop’s screen, the printer behind her whirring to life, spitting out several pieces of paper. “Tell me, Mr. Solo, have you ever had a job before? Reyna is lacking a model for her next photoshoot and I really think you’d be a perfect fit.”

 

He looked at her carefully, a smile tugging at his lips even as he tried to maintain his suspicious gaze. “You planned this from the get-go, didn’t you?”

 

“Perhaps yes. Perhaps Fate is a funny, powerful thing, and I am just a pawn to it, like the rest of us.” She slid the printed plane tickets across the desk to him, smirking. “I took the liberty to have Armitage pack some of your essentials while you got ready this morning. I’m glad that you decided not to shave-- I told Armitage not to pack your razor, as I’m fairly sure Rey was planning to have a more  _ rustic  _ look for this photoshoot.”

 

“Alright, but what about my clothes? Hux is a sneaky bastard, sure, but I think I would have noticed him lugging a suitcase to the car with us,” he smirked back.

 

“Oh, that’s right. Poe will be taking care of your wardrobe needs… and accompanying you on your trip.” She rested her chin on her hands, grinning at the man. “He has  _ several  _ words to say to you regarding the care and maintenance of tuxedos and cufflinks, so you’ll be thoroughly entertained on your plane ride over the Atlantic.”

 

Ben grimaced at her, and she lifted a slim eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Also, to answer your question to Armitage earlier: I would never put a hit out on you. I’m a magazine editor, not a mafia moll.” 

 

He chuckled, pushing himself up from his chair, pausing as Amilyn murmured, her smile still sweet: “However, I’m sure that any of the Five Families would be happy to take you out if I ask. Met Gala invitations are hard to come by, after all, so I suggest that you stay in line or I’ll have to change this year’s theme to something more appropriate.”

 

As he stepped out of her office, closing the door behind him, Ben wasn’t completely sure if Amilyn Holdo was joking or not. Her wit was drier than her goddaughter’s, and there had been a dangerous glint to her eyes, a curl in her lip that made him think that, even if she didn’t actually have the connections to pull a hit off, she could certainly find them.

 

He shook the thought off, squared his shoulders, grinned to himself. Overthinking wouldn’t do him any good. Not when he had a plane to catch.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a tad shorter than usual, but I wanted to update tonight, so here it is ❤️. Enjoy!

For all intents and purposes, Rey found herself hands off of everything since she had arrived in Paris early on Wednesday morning, and it had remained that way to Saturday. She couldn’t tell anyone how long it had been since that disastrous Tuesday, though she owed that to the six hour time difference, and not to her lack of counting. 

 

She had tried to count the seconds, thanks very much. It was the only thing anyone would let her fret over, her godmother arranging her trip, Kaydel packing her luggage, Rose serving as something akin to a chaperone and therapist rolled in one. Even when she had landed in Paris, camera in hand, her mentor Maz Kanata promising to visit on Sunday, she had felt completely out of control of what her life had come to be.

 

When she was younger, there was comfort to be found in control. Rey had become responsible for getting herself dressed, packing her lunches and getting herself to school when she had turned seven, and since then, she hadn’t looked back. People trusted her and her abilities, and she would be damned if she asked for help.

 

It made her terribly self-sufficient, which was apparently a blessing and a curse. It put her in rather good positions at work, and she found herself leading others in time of need, taking charge of large shoots and even some fundraising. 

 

In life, well, apparently it wasn’t such a good thing. She had been told by several would-be boyfriends that she didn’t let them in, didn’t let them help, and that they didn’t like that. They wanted to feel needed, and she had the power to give them that. Rather than amending her behavior, bent to their ways, she had brushed them off, decided that she didn’t need such noise in her life. 

 

It wasn’t her responsibility to make her partner feel important or like a man, to feel needed when really he meant that he wanted to be in control.

 

Maybe that’s why she found herself in a mess with Ben Solo. He hadn’t asked for control-- he had let her take it, and she had let it go to her head. Their outing to the opera, as much as she loathed to admit it, was the closest she had come to a date in a long time. They had been equals, neither above or below each other. Push and pull, trading off when need be.

 

Perhaps she had tightened the reins too much in her fear of failure, and so he had bucked off her control entirely. She just wished that he had done so a bit differently, that she had reacted differently.

 

Instead, she had run away, and he had let her.

 

Maybe it was unfair to think of the situation like that, but since she had escaped into her godmother’s arms, all tears and hurt, she hadn’t heard from him. She would admit to no one that she asked Finn to keep an eye on her office while she was gone, maybe holding out hope for some gesture, some sign that Ben Solo cared.

 

But there had been nothing, and she had been out of the country for almost half a week now. 

 

It served her right to be at a loss, to have been knocked from her pedestal, her perch, to be taken down a peg, by someone like him. She just wished that there had been a better way to learn to let go of her handle on things.

 

It technically wasn’t an awful feeling-- her out of control definitely wasn’t her parents’ out of control, for one thing-- but to have hands off the wheel of your life, to have everything in a sudden freefall, a careening dervish was enough to have made her cry, and she didn’t like it.

 

She didn’t like _him_.

 

The sudden correction in her mind had her rolling over in against the royal blue sheets, feet kicking off her cream duvet, hand yanking off her sleep mask. The minimalist alarm clock on the bedside table blinked at her that it was only 6:34 a.m. and she knew that, in New York, it was half past midnight. 

 

He’d probably still be awake right now. 

 

Awake doing _what,_ she didn’t want to think of. She could still picture the shadows on the bathroom floor, from behind the bathroom stall door, and she wanted to retch, wanted to clench her teeth, wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and never open them, even as the shadows danced across the back of her eyelids.

 

 Rey could still see Rose’s sympathetic eyes looking back at her on the private jet, nothing to talk about on the seven and a half hour flight other than what Ben Solo did in that French bistro with that hostess, and she felt sick again.

 

She scrubbed a hand down her face, feeling the slight stick of sweat and night serum on her fingers as she did. _I don’t like him_ , she chanted to herself, even as she plucked up her robe from its designated spot on her bedpost, shrugged it on. She chanted it again as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the cold wood floors.

 

She wondered how many times one had to repeat a lie to believe it. She wondered who she could ask for an honest answer, if they had black hair and brown eyes, a strong nose, a broad set of shoulders. If their hands were large and good for holding, if their lips were soft and sweet, like they had been on her palm at the opera. If his voice would be as rough and as sweet as she liked it when he answered her question. 

 

She wondered when her traitor of a heart had decided that it quite liked Ben Solo and why it had failed to notify the rest of her until the bathroom incident.

 

Rey huffed a sigh, tugging the plush robe closed and tying the belt tight around her waist, feet tiptoeing towards the large balcony doors of her bedroom. For the week, she and the girls were at one of the Holdo vacation properties, the flat a decent size, more of a home than a getaway. Soon, they would be picking up and moving along, the itinerary dictating that they would move on to Great Britain, then to the Netherlands, then back to New York. 

 

Her godmother had been wise enough to insist that it was a business trip, and once the male model and Poe joined them, Rey could lose herself in her work and not spare another thought to the man who probably wouldn’t call.

 

 In a moment, she was pushing one door, and then the other, open, feeling the rush of chill morning air against her face, taking a deep breath and relishing in the silent Parisian street. It was enough to make her shiver and pull the robe tighter, her sleepwear just a tad on the light side, a bralette and pair of leggings keeping her decent and cool at night. They were a bit worn, but she had no one to impress. There was no one she would be welcoming into her bed anytime soon.

 

She frowned at the thought. 

 

She knew that it was a complete privilege to just pick up one’s life and move when life elsewhere had become unwieldy, but there was no way to feel guilty when one’s morning view was the sunrise dappled Eiffel Tower, when one’s breakfast was a chocolate croissant and maybe a glass (or two) of red wine. However, the distance she had placed between herself and Ben Solo did nothing to soothe her heart, as if some vengeful god wanted to force her feelings to grow fonder in Ben’s absence, some cruel joke made to be laughed at by anyone who wasn’t her.

 

Below her, on the street, a teenager peddled by on her bike, definitely unaware of the turmoil roiling in Rey Kenobi's head. _Probably for the best,_ Rey mused, ticking over the details of her stay so far, over life as she now knew it.

 

She was at least proud to say that she didn't drag Kaydel and Rose down with her (much).

 

 Rose had a buoyant enough spirit that, even if Rey wanted to pout and muse and sulk her way around the Louvre, she wasn't able, being taken by the hand and tugged into some happier moments. 

 

Kaydel, on the other hand, also suited this kind of trip, the photographer and stylist sitting up with each other, wine in hand, lightly chatting and holding vigil while Rose danced the night away in some club.

 

(No one pushed Rey to go out and dance, for which she was grateful. She didn't need to be in a place that inherently reminded her of _him_. Not where darkness and the press of writhing, dancing bodies could be mistaken for intimacy, where the good times could be had by the manipulation of drugs, alcohol or another person. 

 

She didn't want to be in a place where one glass too many of champagne may make her think she saw his retreating form, made her think that she could catch him, hold him, kiss him.

 

She also didn't need to be reminded that he _wasn't_ there, that the broad back that she mistook for his was some other man with a too charming smile, lifting his eyebrows at her in hopes that she hadn't made a mistake, that she wanted them, wanted to flirt. 

 

She didn't want anyone else, and she hated it. In her life, she had never wanted anything that money couldn't buy, and the one time that it so happened, she wanted that thing desperately, ardently, painfully… and was very well aware that all the money in the world couldn't make her the owner of Ben Solo's heart. 

 

Still, she digressed, and only made such a confession to Kaydel on the second night in Paris, after three glasses of wine and some chocolate mousse. She was only human, after all.)

 

For someone who insisted that she wasn't thinking about him, that Ben Solo and his activities were the farthest thing from her mind, she seemed rather obsessed, didn't she? Rey cracked a smile at herself, feeling the corners of her mouth barely tug up to achieve it.

 

Who knew that she had carried her feelings with her across the Atlantic? She had thought-- no, she had _hoped--_ that she had left them behind in that bathroom with Solo. 

 

Apparently not, and she sighed, turning back to her bed, returning to only smooth the sheets, grab up her phone. The silence between them wouldn’t do, and she supposed that she had to be the one to fix it, because heaven knows that Ben wouldn’t.

 

Her thumb knew this dance well, swiping and delicately tapping at the screen, a movement she had done at least twice a day since she had touched down in Europe. However, at the end of the dance, instead of exiting out without a call, she tapped the small phone icon, watched the call connect.

 

She could hear a phone ringing in the living room. Her brow furrowed, and she wondered if it was a coincidence, if Kaydel or Rose was awake and taking calls in the living room. Still, she found one hand on her door, nudging it open as her other hand cradled her phone.

 

The phone clattered to the floor, call still trying to connect to the phone that laid at Ben Solo’s side as he dozed on her couch, his snoring soft, his face smooth and calm. Poe was curled up in the recliner and if she had been expecting the intrusion, Rey would have smiled, would have shook her head and retreated. 

 

However, she hadn’t, so it wasn’t a surprise that the men were roused by four quick words escaping the photographer in a shriek.

 

_“What the actual fuck?!”_

 

Oh, her godmother was going to get a call, time difference be damned. If there was one thing that Rey hated more than losing control, it was surprises. 

 

Especially if said surprise entailed Ben Solo sleepily opening his eyes to grin at Rey, his words sending her stomach in a free fall.

 

"Good morning to you too, sweetheart."


	15. Chapter 15

She was not happy to see him.

 

He had been well acquainted with the idea that she wouldn't receive his arrival very well. His own anxiety had told him so, and Poe had echoed it at least once every hour on the eight or so hour flight to France from New York. Still, he had held out hope that it would be a bit different. 

 

After all, how crazy would it be to think that maybe, just maybe, she liked him as much as he liked her? How insane was it to wonder if she had missed him?

 

Answer: it was completely, fatally, and irrevocably insane to harbor such delusions, and he should have probably been committed the moment she woke him up this morning with a shocked scream.

 

He hadn't heard whatever the resulting conversation was between her and whoever she called-- he could only assume that it was Amilyn, with how quickly she had shut her bedroom door behind her, how shrill her voice had become as Poe shooed him off to freshen up in the bathroom, slacks and a button down shirt slung over his shoulder. He only knew a few things, including that she had been calling him in the seconds leading up to the abrupt wake up, the evidence remaining secure in his call logs. 

 

That had to mean something, right?

 

Not enough, apparently, the woman emerging from her room an hour later, her hair coiffed just so, her lips painted a precise red, her outfit immaculate, as if she was unfazed by her new guests, as if she hadn't had a rather distraught relationship with one of them. Rose Tico, another rich girl, another face he recognized from magazine spreads and another guest of Rey's on this trip to emotional hell he found himself on, at least had the decency to look surprised when she saw him lounging-- okay, _sulking--_ in the living room. That was before she arranged her face in a careful mask of disapproval, sticking her chin out in a haughty display as she moved to flank her friend.

 

He couldn't blame her for that. He deserved it, as he was the bad guy in terms of the black and white of the situation, the wrong and the right, the flat view of things. Still, it did annoy him just a bit.

 

Kaydel seemed to be the only woman in the group to be alright with his existence, waving to him when she joined the posse in the living room, making sure that he understood that the breakfast invitation did actually include him, even if their lovely hostess didn't say so.

 

So, no, it didn't surprise him that here, on this crowded restaurant's patio, as waiter's bustled around them and native Parisians leisurely ate and chatted, her gaze seemed to be everywhere but him. Ben had always noticed how Rey seemed to meet everyone's eye in public, from her friends' to the waiter's to even strangers', but for the life of him, she wouldn't meet his now. 

 

She seemed to be fully engrossed in the typeset of the menu before her, as if she hadn't already ordered several courses. What was more, she had put her sunglasses back on after ordering, the sunny spring day making it a necessity. It also made finding her eyes behind them an impossibility. 

 

Really, he knew that he deserved to suffer in silence, but it still stung quite a bit, okay?

 

Ben ignored the curious look from Kaydel, the obligatory glare from Rose, the practiced indifference of Poe. He was only focused on one thing, and it was as if she was well aware that he wanted her to look at him. 

 

She had to at some point. To not would be to ultimately surrender to the elephant in the room, to acknowledge the tension, to fail as a hostess. He had watched his mother enough times growing up to know that, even if you hate someone or were embroiled in an unfinished argument, you still looked them in the eye and made small talk to save face. 

 

He just hoped that she didn't actually hate him; otherwise, it would make getting her alone to apologize a Herculean task.

 

"How was your flight, Poe?" 

 

Ben nearly smirked at how pointedly the question wasn't for him, even as he swooped in to answer. "He had to sit next to me the entire time, so it went as well as it could."

 

He saw Kaydel and Rose exchange a glance, which really was his only confirmation that he had actually spoken, Rey seeming to ignore his words, looking right past him and at the designer.

 

Poe set down his coffee cup, delicately wiping the remnants of his last sip from his mouth. He seemed to be the only one among them with an appetite for anything besides this drama, glancing up at Rey almost neutrally. "It was actually rather nice. I was able to plan several outfits for the photoshoot, and believe it or not, I actually enjoyed Ben's company."

 

The designer's eyes flickered to Ben, as if to say _I'm helping you just this once_ and it was almost enough to make him get on his knees and praise whatever god was listening to his prayers. Then Rey snorted, and it was clear that God had forsaken him again.

 

"Was he actually capable of having a conversation, or did he fuck off to the bathroom with the flight attendant when he got bored?" 

 

Ben's jaw tightened, and he could swear that Rey had looked at him for a moment, even if she seemed intent on the space above his right shoulder. 

 

"No, actually--" Poe frowned, his mouth opening to say more, but Ben cut him off.

 

"I didn't really get bored, seeing that Poe was talking to me because he _wanted_ to and not because he has a _point to prove."_ He knew that she was looking at him now, her eyes snapping onto him as she scowled. He was only aware of her eyes out of the corner of his, however, turning to Rose with a grin.

 

"Did Rey tell you how she lectured me for half an hour about how to use a spoon because she didn't want to be embarrassed in front of _my_ parents? Really fascinating stuff, that."

 

Rose's mouth dropped open in a perfect _o_ in response, and he could hear Rey huffing from across the table. "If you bothered showing that you had any idea about _etiquette_ , maybe I wouldn't have felt the _need_ to teach you the first thing about formal dining."

 

"Well, maybe if you _asked_ instead of _assumed_ , we could have been on the same page to begin with." He finally looked at her again, noticing the deepening pink of her cheeks, how she yanked off her sunglasses now.

 

"Well _pardon me_ for helping like you _asked me to!"_ Her flushing face was all too apparent against the crisp collar of her white Oxford shirt, and Ben could see how her jaw worked, could hear how she grit her teeth as he laughed.

 

"Oh, sweetheart, if I thought that asking you for help would make you into a tyrant, I would have asked my mother to straighten me out instead."

 

There was the sharp staccato _snap_ of plastic, and for a moment, he was at a loss as to what the source was. Then he looked to Rey's hands and how her sunglasses were now cracked at the bridge of their nose. 

 

For a moment, she looked embarrassed, especially as the group and several diners from neighboring tables paused to look, trying to identify the sound, trying to figure out the source of the damage. The look evaporated though, a flash of frustration sparking in her eyes as Ben clicked his tongue scoldingly, slinging an arm over the back of his chair as he leaned back.

 

"Temper, temper, Reyna."

 

She was out of her seat, throwing down her napkin onto her chair, looking back up at him with a glare. Perhaps she was going to say something, perhaps not. Still, it was all too easy for him to raise an eyebrow at her.

 

"Are you planning on coming back to the table, or is your storming off going to be a bit more permanent?" He gestured at her napkin as it sat, crumpled and forlorn on the seat she had just vacated. "I think it was you who told me to put the napkin on the plate if you're not coming back."

 

"Go to hell, Solo," she hissed. He almost felt bad for her, an otherwise smooth getaway marred by the closeness of the other tables, how congested the seated crowd seemed to be on this casual Saturday. Still, she seemed to manage, pushing past several servers with an apology and without a backwards glance at the table she had just vacated, three out of the four remaining guests sitting with their mouths agape.

 

Ben grinned to himself, lazily rising as well with a leisurely stretch. "Well, that's my cue. I can't promise that I won't get lost finding her, but there has to be an attempt made."

 

Rose blinked at him still, even as Kaydel shook her head and Poe rolled his eyes. Ben sighed, digging in his back pocket for his wallet, dropping a black credit card onto Poe's plate now.

 

"Buy breakfast for yourselves. And maybe buy Rey a new pair of sunglasses-- they were probably Chanel or some other designer shit."

 

"Is it really wise to leave your credit card with us?" Ben laughed at Rose's question, quirking an eyebrow in admiration. Finally, someone asking the right questions.

 

"What do I care? That's my uncle's card."

 

* * *

 

She should have known she was going to take the bait. Rey glared at her reflection in a shop window, grateful that she was only flushed, that she wasn't trembling, or worse, crying. 

 

She wanted to be mad at him still.

 

It was easier to admit to herself that she was tending a bit of a flame for Solo when she wasn't expecting to ever see him again. Alright, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration-- New York's elite was enough of an exclusive group that she would have seen him again sooner or later, as dictated by the social season. Still, she thought she had _time_ to rearrange her mask into disinterest, to pretend that she didn't care one bit for Ben Solo, that it had just been business between them. 

 

And then God and Fate and her own godmother had to arrange it so she was confronted with him on her living room couch, and she had never been more tempted to turn on her heel and go back to bed as if to dream him away.

 

He saw right through her, didn't he? Or maybe Amilyn had told him more than she had let on, her godmother playing at innocence and forgetfulness, citing the very early hour-- "Oh, dear goodness me, it's one o'clock in the morning and you expect me to function? I haven't even come close to having coffee this morning, Reyna."

 

Rey had grit her teeth and forced herself to not remind her godmother that she had given up on caffeine about ten years ago. Instead, she resolved herself to ignore Ben as long as she could, seeing that her godmother also casually suggested that she also apologize to him.

 

 _She_ , apologize to _him?_ Rey had never denied blame so vehemently before now. 

 

There was a tapping, and she focused again, realizing that she had been glaring at the window for some time now, the shopkeeper looking back at her concerned. She waved at him, nodding as she turned away, feeling her blush slip to the back of her neck. Thank God no one in France cared who she was-- she didn't need some paparazzo seeing her like this so her emotional failure was broadcast to the gossips on the east side.

 

Still, she didn't spare a glance over at Ben as he now fell into step beside her, instead tightening her grip on her purse, something to hold on to, something to keep her grounded.

 

Something that she could hit him with if he decided to harass her some more.

 

"You didn't go very far, Kenobi." She knew he was grinning by how he hummed, hearing his clothes rustle as he presumably slipped his hands into his pockets. "I thought you'd make it to the Seine by now."

 

"Why? Were you hoping to be thrown in?" She huffed, keeping her gaze ahead, spying the Eiffel's spire in the distance. "We can still arrange that."

 

"I'd rather not go for a dip before noon, but I doubt you actually care." His hand alighted on her shoulder, and she let him tug her towards him, pausing now in the middle of the sidewalk. 

 

Still, she didn't look at him. Not when it was the only way to keep control.

 

He sighed at her, and she was grateful that he didn't seem to try to correct her gaze, his hand falling back to his side instead of to her chin to tilt her gaze up and on him. 

 

"Reyna." The word was short, the sigh exhaled at the end exasperated.

 

"Benjamin." Now she looked at him, and she wish she hadn't. His brows were furrowed, his eyes narrowed, but not in an upset way. More of an investigative way, his eyes seeming to flicker from one point of her face to another, cataloging the quirk of her brow, the twitch of her lips.

 

"What?" She asked, wishing he would stop looking, that he would say something stupid. Give her an excuse to stomp away, pull away instead of being pulled in. She wanted to know what he was trying to see. What he actually saw.

 

"Do you hate me, Kenobi?"

 

"What kind of question is that?"

 

"I think it's a fair one." He shifted forward to let someone slip by behind him, and Rey held her breath, dared herself not to take in his scent, not to take comfort in his closeness. 

 

They hadn't been this close since the opera, and her body certainly remembered that.

 

"I think you lost your privilege to ask me anything after what you did."

 

He tilted his head at her, and she almost growled at him. Still, he shrugged again, admitting, "Maybe."

 

She almost turned, started walking again, but his voice was sudden, tugging her back in, back at his mercy: "I'm sorry."

 

"Do you even know what you're sorry for?" Rey snapped, frowning at him. She crossed her arms, hoping that the makeshift barrier was enough to keep herself from crossing a line, from putting herself at risk.

 

"I have a general idea. And a few guesses." His eyes seemed to be smoldering, his gaze intense, his frown seemingly thoughtful. 

 

He sighed as she remained quiet, neither confirming or denying. She wanted him to work for his forgiveness.

 

"I fell back on what I know. Admittedly, my comfort zone is not exactly appropriate--"

 

"No shit."

 

"-- and there's no excuse for what I did. Even though we were definitely _not_ on a date," he smirked at her, as if to say _per your insistence_ , "I shouldn't have done what I did, since it made you uncomfortable and it was rather immature of me. So. I'm sorry."

 

He was looking at his shoes again, and she wondered where his bravado had gone, but then he glanced up, met her eyes, and her stomach fell. 

 

He looked haggard, tired, and she wondered how she had missed the dark circles under his eyes, the five o'clock shadow framing his jaw, the frown that was coming too naturally to his mouth. 

 

She hoped that she hadn't gone soft, that her attraction or feelings or insanity-- whatever it was-- to Ben Solo wasn't making her susceptible to tricks. But she sighed, throwing her hands down and out of the embrace she held herself in.

 

"I'm sorry too." 

 

"Do you even know what _you're_ sorry for?" She frowned at the question, raising her eyes and realizing he was teasing, his smile small but fond on her.

 

"Maybe not. You're still a prick."

 

"Guilty as charged, sweetheart. Unfortunately, teaching me the difference between a salad and  fish fork isn't the same as teaching me manners."

 

His brow furrowed again, his grin dropping from his face. "You don't have to try to teach me how to be a good rich person anymore."

 

"I figured, seeing that I quit trying on Tuesday--"

 

"I'm still going to help you find your family though."

 

She froze, and forced her gaze straight ahead, counting the buttons that dotted the v of his shirt, taking note that he seemed to loathe to button up all the way. She swallowed, wondered why she was flushing instead of processing what he said.

 

"Why?"

 

He shrugged, looked away for the first time since he had stopped her, and she let herself follow his gaze. The street had gotten busier, the sun higher, a steady stream of people twisting around them as they stood at a standstill, an island amid a torrent. 

 

She let herself wonder for a moment what the passersby were seeing in them as they walked by, surely caught snippets of the conversation, unintentionally eavesdropping as they tried to make progress on their individual journeys. Friends? Strangers? Lovers?

 

Rey shook her head, forced herself to resurface now, Ben seemingly finding the words to his answer.

 

"Because you want to know, and I want to help." He looked at her, shoving his hands in his pockets again. "I don't expect anything in return, before you ask. You tried the impossible, and we made a deal."

 

"My, my. Who knew that Ben Solo had his own code of honor?" She smiled, allowing herself this gentle tease as he chuckled.

 

"You could call it that. I also see it as an opportunity to show you I'm not that bad of a guy."

 

"You think that's what I like? 'Not that bad'?" She rolled her eyes, stepped back and out of the way of a group of tourists walking past, chattering excitedly.

 

"I think you like that more than rich douchebags, and I've already tried that vibe," Ben teased back, following her.

 

Rey didn't realize that her back was literally to the wall until she tried stepping back to make more space for him, finding him cornering her, but not finding it in her to mind. "Well, your strategy is off. I only like nice men."

 

His eyes seemed to darken, and she shivered, one of his hands coming to rest by her shoulder, the other catching her hand in his.

 

"I can be a nice man, sweet girl," he murmured,his voice low in his throat, dark and delicious and warm. 

 

She could have answered, but she couldn't find her voice, not as he lifted her hand to his lips, pressed his mouth against her wrist's pulsepoint. At least, she thought she lost her voice, her words slipping from her mouth before she could rein them back in, a loss of control too sudden to stop.

 

"Maybe I don't want you to be nice all the time."

 

He smirked against her skin, dropping a kiss to her palm and now to the back of her hand, almost chaste. "Too bad. You said you wanted nice, and I can give you nice."

 

Ben smiled at her, all sweetness, no deviousness to be found. "Besides, I owe you breakfast. Hungry?"

 

"Starving," she groaned, feigning innocence as his eyes focused on her mouth, as if he was wondering how he could get her to recreate that sound, that sigh, that want.

 

Still, she didn't drop his hand until they had set off again, falling back into step. She brushed off his raised eyebrow with a shrug, haughtily tossing her head. 

 

"I never said I forgave you."

 

"I'll beg for it later, sweetheart."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight break-- work got busy and I was having a lot of anxiety and doubt as a writer, especially in the fandom. Much love to you all for waiting, and extra love to those who encouraged me (you know who you are). Enjoy!

Forgiveness was not a skill Rey had in spades. In general, she avoided situations where she either had to ask for or give forgiveness. Thus far, she had gotten through life without it, save for three times.

 

Once, when she asked for the police officer to forgive her for crying,  _ she usually didn’t cry, really, truly, it wasn’t becoming,  _ when she was told that her parents weren’t coming home. 

 

She knew now that crying was natural-- she had been bereaved, abandoned, left, that such a gap in her life would be felt, could create a void if she wasn’t careful. Still, she begged for forgiveness, because it was either to ask for that or to curse God for letting her parents leave her like this.

 

Twice, when she asked herself for forgiveness for not doing more to intervene on a certain man's behalf on a certain night, in front of a certain club. 

 

She had gone to a priest for that one, sat in a musty confessional while that certain man probably sat in the hospital, and then rehab, and then his lonely penthouse. She had prayed, and she still wasn’t sure if she had prayed for him or for herself. The priest had reprimanded her for being selfish in the face of someone else’s suffering, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel the shame.

 

Now, thrice, as that same man apologized, and she said it back. 

 

On the surface, that was the end of that particular conversation. They said what they needed to, had picked up, moved on, sitting across from each other on another sunny patio. They had talked, but really hadn’t said anything-- Rey wondered if it was because they knew that they should talk more about their behavior, about them as a unit, a possibility, in general… but still, she hadn’t steered the conversation to that topic, and he hadn’t either, sitting with wane smiles and speaking on the menu, the future photoshoots, the travel itinerary. 

 

None of those times were easy. But this last one was the hardest yet, because truly, there was no conclusion. Not yet. Not for a while. And she wasn’t helping move them towards it, instead dawdling now. 

 

Rey adjusted her lens, focused on Ben's face. The sky had darkened now, several hours after the scene at the cafe, several hours after they had apologized. They had returned to the flat to find it quiet and empty, and shrugged it off. Inside though, Rey trembled, a sweet voice that sounded like her but baser and smirking murmuring in her ear how she had the time, space, and  _ him _ all to herself. 

 

_ What, oh what, was she going to do with him? _

 

_ Nothing, _ she had answered herself. There was no satisfaction in the higher road though; just a grinding ache, a curiosity, an itch. 

 

He had offered to do anything she wanted to ease the path of forgiveness, and she had accepted, perhaps more for his sake. True, Ben Solo seemed to be the type to always ask forgiveness rather than permission, but if she could help him reach absolution, just once, she would.

 

After all, it eased her guilty conscience too. Her shutter snapped, and she pulled back, reset. 

 

This was easy, this was routine, this is what she wanted, yes? Perhaps. 

 

When she had given him his task, he had cocked his head, smiled at her, before obliging. He probably anticipated something different, something more primal, when she asked him to strip down to just his underwear.

 

The look on his face when she lead him to the bathroom, to the steaming bathroom she had drawn while he stripped (his eyes had invited her to stay, to watch, but her heart started pounding in her temples and she had excused herself)... Well, it was a silly mix of surprise and disappointment. She had chuckled at him, gesturing at her camera.

 

"What else did you expect? You're the model, I'm the photographer."

 

Business as usual. She could do this.

 

She had worked alongside numerous good looking men and women, had sat back, detached, much like she had when in college art classes. She had to study figures one semester and  Life Drawing 101 wasn't sexy-- it was more awkward, more vulnerable, almost scientific, the professor gesturing to certain contours and convexs, a patch of freckles, the definition of a muscle. She had left that class wondering how anyone could find the naked body attractive, only marveling at human forms rendered in marble at museums, in Rome, in some private collection.

 

She had learned to be immune to desire. She had been sure of that, and so she was never afraid of falling in love with her subjects, her model.

 

Why then, as Ben sat in this half filled tub, in his underwear and an undershirt, hair dampening with the steam, his eyes as dark as always, did she feel that unavoidable heat between her legs?

 

She huffed, leaned forward, then back before standing from her odd crouch, stretching. Maybe, just maybe, if she moved back, to the end of the tub, she wouldn't be so tempted to reach out, to get her hands wet and dirty in more ways than one. 

 

She shifted, took the step, stooped and aimed. Her camera lowered then, Ben's lips parting, his voice warmer than she expected. In the silence, she almost forgot what he could do to her with a simple tone, a pout.

 

“I’m cold,” he muttered, staring sullenly at the camera shutter as it clicked, Rey lowering the camera to raise an eyebrow at him.

 

Of all the places Ben thought he'd be in his life, a bathtub in a Paris flat whilst wearing only his underwear was definitely not his first guess. Being across from someone like Rey Kenobi in a moment where she was down from her pedestal, her hair falling out of its low bun, her eyeliner smudged, her shirt rolled up to her elbows, was not his second, third or fourth guess either.

 

But he had always been a shit guesser. And he was always happy to be corrected, especially by someone like her. It's what attracted him first, wasn't it? 

 

“No, you’re not. I can still see the steam coming off the bath. You’re just bored.” She smiled despite herself, unable to keep her twitching lips in a straight line as her model looked at her, scowl on his lips. “You said that you’d do anything to get back in my good graces…”

 

“To be fair, I thought you wanted something different when you asked me to strip.”

 

“Of course you did. The phrase is ‘forgive and forget,’ not ‘forgive and fuck.’ Now stay still.”

 

He scowled at her still, but relented, waiting a few moments after the camera clicked to shift, the water ebbing and flowing around him, pulling his knees to his chest. 

 

Ben Solo wasn’t modest. The Skywalker family didn’t have the word in their vocabulary, nor did they know the sensation of self-consciousness. Yet, under Rey’s hazel eyes, her softening stare, the fond curve of her lips, the man wondered what she saw.

 

And if he was lacking.

 

Still, he kept his lips pressed in a firm line, looked down the barrel of Rey’s camera and posed. The camera clicked again, and she sat back, seemingly satisfied. 

 

She dipped a hand into the bath, as if to test the temperature, give or take credence to his complaint, and Ben marvelled at his self-restraint. He wanted to, longed to, absolutely  _ ached _ to pull himself closer, catch her hand and pull her closer. 

 

He didn’t know what he would do once he was that close, once he was in her orbit again, but he was sure he could figure it out. He had always been creative like that. 

 

Rey swirled her hand in the warm water, watching how her fingers broke the surface, sent ripples towards Ben. “Truth or dare, Ben?”

 

She almost froze at her own words, admonished herself for such a childish question, and so she kept her eyes down, forced her shoulders to relax, waiting coolly for the sarcastic response surely headed her way.

 

Instead, she heard him hum, heard him move, the water breaking and dripping as he reached up, scratched his chin. “Truth.”

 

He could have asked her, should have asked her, what her angle was. Ben knew that they weren’t quite friends, but were more than acquaintances, and less than lovers. He, for one, did not know how to make the transition to anything more, but if humoring her while he sat in his underwear and a bathtub was the way to do it, he would. 

 

“Are you actually sorry?”

 

Ben stilled, like she knew that he would. Rey expected a flash of panic, a frown or a grimace as he put together a lie maybe, as he scrambled to his own defense. There was none of that though. He only looked up, into her eyes, his gaze long, his lips pressed tightly.

 

“Yes. I actually am.”

 

“Do you know what you did?” If this was in middle school, she would be scolded for asking two questions in a row instead of giving him his turn, but she stared back at him, her hand pausing in the water as she waited.

 

“Yes, and no. I know that the...situation at the restaurant is more than enough to be sorry for.” He leaned back, back pressing against the tub, his legs stretching out. He made the tub look tiny, his left leg brushing her fingers as he stretched, and she shivered. 

 

“However, I thought a lot about what you said, and how you looked in the moment, and I know what your aunt said. I know there’s much more I have to be sorry for, even if some of it isn’t wholly my fault. I am sorry though.”

 

Was that enough? It didn’t seem like enough. Ben looked at Rey, how her hair curled at her cheeks, the wisps sticking to her skin. For a moment, he worried that she was crying, her skin damp, but then she huffed, wiping her forehead instead of her eyes, and he relaxed.

 

She nodded, her eyes meeting his again, almost shyly. “Your turn.”

 

“Truth or dare, Reyna?”

 

He grinned at how her brows furrowed and her lips pinched for a moment, as they did every time he called her her full name, but then she simpered, pulling her hand from the water. 

 

“Truth.”

 

“Have we met before?” Maybe the question was an odd one, but he had spent a long time thinking while she was gone. It was one of the luxuries being sober afforded him, having a clear mind to think with, even if there was nothing to take the painful edge off. There was a specter in his memory, a hazy figure who had worried and scolded and told him no the night he should have listened, and he wondered…

 

Rey swallowed thickly, finally glanced away. “Yes,” she whispered, and waited. There should be more questions, and she didn’t know if she’d have the answers. So she waited.

 

Instead: “I’m sorry.” 

 

A pause, and then: “Your turn.”

 

Her eyes were almost wild when she looked at him again, and Ben bit his tongue. He had nothing to say, and yet all too much. 

 

There was no clean or simple way to say that he had dreamed of her before he knew that it was her, knew who had tried to be his guardian angel. 

 

There was no concrete way to say that he had seen only her behind his eyelids during rehab, could still taste the odd flavor of her menthol cigarette mixed with the thin layer of her lip gloss. He could still remember the faint taste of cherries, even now, the flavor stinging the back of his throat.

 

“Truth or dare, Ben?” Her voice was soft, gentle, and he wondered if he would shatter if she reached out and touched him right now. He breathed through his nose, exhaled slowly.

 

“Truth.”

 

“Do you miss it?” Rey knew that she didn’t need to clarify what ‘it’ was-- the intoxication, the drugs, the alcohol, the leave of absences he would take from reality.

 

“No.” His lips twisted for a moment, and she wondered what he was struggling with, what he wanted to say. Then he swallowed, and confessed: “Not since I met you again.”

 

His eyes burned hers as he asked, “Truth or dare, sweetheart?”

 

“Dare,” she breathed, and he smiled.

 

“Come here.” 

 

If he was younger, more impatient, he would growl at how slowly she moved, her movements careful, Rey turning away to set her camera down on a folded stack of towels. However, now, he needed this time to lengthen, to prolong. He wasn’t actually sure if he was ready to have her so close, wasn’t sure if his heart would slow in its hammering enough to let him feign coolness. 

 

He knew how to seduce women, sure. He wasn’t sure how to properly love one though.

 

His fingers were warm and a bit wrinkled from the water, but Rey still found herself holding her breath as his hands settled on her waist, found the small of her back. She stepped into the embrace, shivering against the warmth of his hands, his eyes as he looked up at her, as if he were a supplicant before a goddess.

 

“Can I?” 

 

She wasn’t sure what he was asking permission for, but still, she nodded, gasping as he tugged her shirt up, pressed the first kiss just above her right hip. Then it was to her left hip, her bellybutton, his lips dragging a path across her skin in between, leaving her burning and flushing and whimpering.

 

It was odd, his focus. It was as if he was nervous about venturing higher or lower than her waist, but then she gasped, feeling the nip of his teeth and then the soothing of his tongue. Better to test the waters than to dive in, she supposed, her hands finding his hair.

 

They hadn’t even kissed on the mouth yet, and that thought gave her pause, pulled her away, forced herself to take a step back, out of his arms. 

 

He looked up at her, brows raised, but without judgment, and she wondered if he thought this a rejection, that the problem was that she didn’t want him.

 

“I...I’m sorry.” She almost didn’t recognize her own voice, the tremor making it foreign and strange. She was never unsure of herself… but she was now. Her feet were moving now, her legs quick as she rushed from the bathroom, his call after her heard but not heeded. 

 

Maybe she heard the sloshing of water, Ben’s curse as he struggled from the bath, but it didn’t matter, her shoes slipping on easily, her purse an easy grab from the coat rack by the door.

 

Was it cowardly to run? Maybe. She just hoped that it wasn’t unforgivable, her past memories of Paris guiding her to a little bar at the end of the street. 

 

As she flagged down the bartender, she smoothed her shirt down, tried to forget the feel of his lips, his hands, the heat. Maybe, just maybe, with enough wine in her, there would be nothing to miss about him.

 

(She knew that she was wrong. Really, that was all she knew anymore.)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different, but mostly because it was written while I was half asleep/drugged up with Zzquil. (I'm moving this week and my sleep schedule is fucked so forgive me.)

Waiting was something Ben had never been good at. Some psychologists would probably say that it stemmed from being raised wealthy, that anything could be had quicker than a Tiffany's salesperson could ring up a purchase. Others would say that it stemmed from his family preferring to keep the peace rather than impart love and lessons, and it was easier to just "give the damn kid whatever he fucking wants, _we're late._ "

 

But maybe he digressed. The bottom line was that Ben Solo had never waited for anything, or anyone, so for him to be holding vigil from a chair in the front foyer was, to say the least, difficult.

 

Waiting for someone like Rey? Well, that was excruciating.

 

Somewhere in the living room or maybe in the spacious kitchen, a clock ticked, that sound being the only thing accompanying the sound of his breath as his chest rose and fell, his heart beating in time. The chair smelled a bit of his host, her perfume clinging to the fabric of the seat, and he wondered if his pajama pants and the ridiculously small bathrobe he had nicked from the bathroom would soak up the smell, if it would seep in, help him pretend that everything was alright.

 

Nothing was though, and not just because the bathtub hadn't been drained, the water puddles on the tile floor barely dried, the soft couch cushions thrown about after a hasty search for his phone. 

 

Her phone's location wasn't on, she hadn't so much as read his subsequent messages, and all he could do was sink deeper into the armchair he had dragged over. All he could do _was_ wait.

 

He knew that he should have waited to pull her close, to kiss her, to try to show her just how hungry and wild and desperate she had him. He knew he should have faltered, hesitated, taken just a moment. 

 

He flexed his hands, tried to displace the feel of her skin from his fingertips. It still lingered.

 

It didn't surprise him that she ran from him again. Some part of him, the part that hated waiting, remembered when intimacy and joy and a break from reality could all be had manufactured in a moment, for the right price. 

 

He didn't want to buy his happiness anymore though. He just wanted _her._

 

So no, he wasn't mad, or hurt, or even all that upset that she ran. Perhaps he was all those things for not catching her, for not following, but above all, he was _scared._

 

_You move too fast for me._

 

She had muttered that to him the first time they had met, at that stupid party, that gaudy debutante ball. That night, she had said it to get out of a dance with him, and he hadn't minded. He knew that he was poison ivy to a proper society girl's bloom. He knew that there had to be an attempt made for the sake of his mother, probably reluctantly invited by Amilyn for appearance's sake.

 

But those six words were all too true, weren't they? He always went too fast. He always had been erratic with his behavior, finding solace in unpredictability, thumbing his nose at tradition… until it became _his_ tradition, his trademark, his ruse turned reality.

 

Someone like him wasn't allowed to slow down, to stop, to wait. His place in this stupid rich world was to make others cringe, and embarrassments like him couldn't simply _wait_ for things to change.

 

Forced to move until change was made, a lesson was learned, or he died trying. It wasn't unlike the ghastly telling of Snow White his first nanny had treated him to. He still remembered the red hot shoes pulled from the coals for the wicked queen to dance in at her stepdaughter's wedding.

 

He remembered how she was forced to dance till she was dead. He remembered, because he had all but tried to do the same.

 

All because he couldn't _wait._

 

Rey, though? She must be used to waiting. Part of her job was waiting, after all. Sure, photographers pose their subjects; they tinker with the light, the backdrop, the props.

 

At the end of the day though, their pictures came down to waiting for the right moment. To shoot the wrong moment would be like dropping a guillotine blade too soon: the razor-sharp precision was gone, and your subject could look utterly inhuman in the aftermath.

 

She had waited for her parents to change their ways. She had waited for them to love her as much as she loved them, and that led to her waiting up all night to see them come home on the day that they didn't.

 

Ben didn't want to think of anything else she had waited for, especially because she had waited for him on a number of occasions.

 

Waited for him to bring back her phone. Waited for his first apology, waited for him to ask for help. 

 

Waited for him the night of the Opera, both in the lobby of his apartment skyrise and in the Met Opera's lobby, clad in that black silk, every inch a patient goddess, a benevolent queen.

 

Waited for him to show interest in putting his money where his mouth was, waited for him to care about the lessons he had asked for.

 

Waited for him at the goddamn forsaken French bistro, waited for him to emerge from that fucking bathroom stall, feeling the shame that he forgot to have.

 

Waited for him to show her that he was worth waiting for.

 

And what had he done? He had rushed, had jumped, dove, sprinted into the wrong direction at each turn.

 

 Some psychologists would give him a pass, citing that it was the only thing he knew to do. Some would be more to the point and probably diagnose him as a narcissist, say he had a god complex to go with his mommy and daddy issues. 

 

Again, he digressed, and he leaned his head back against the chair's back, his damp hair curling at the nape of his neck. 

 

No one was here at the flat, he was sure, not that he had waited to listen and find out earlier. 

 

He'd work on it though. For now, he'd just practice waiting.

 

* * *

 

It was 2:49 a.m. and Rey was waiting for the bartender to announce last call before she forced herself to walk back to the flat. She sipped the last of her drink, hearing the straw stutter around the pockets of air inside, no liquor left in the cold glass.

 

She wanted to put her head down on the smooth bar, but instead she pushed herself up. Instead, she tried to remember how many drinks she had drank versus how many cups of water, tried to remember if anyone would be home to take care of her if she absolutely needed it. 

 

Rey knew that there was probably one person still at the rented flat of hers, but she wouldn't hold her breath. He probably was out, finding solace of his own. Not waiting for her.

 

The walk back was short, the early morning air still having the midnight's bite of chill in it. She's definitely swaying more than usual, but she isn't stumbling, so she's confident that she'll make it up the stairs just fine.

 

Besides, no one would be waiting for her to walk in. She could wallow in her shame for a little bit longer, knowing that there wasn't a pair of eyes waiting to see her, judge her, write her off.

 

She wasn't used to people waiting for her. Well, correction: she was used to people waiting to see her fail. She knew that there was probably talk of how she had failed to reform the Solo boy, that bored paparazzi and easily scandalized society matrons were lying in wait across the Atlantic, back in New York. 

 

What she wasn't used to was people waiting for her for her sake.

 

As a professional, she refused to be the weakest link, to be the one late to a gathering, to hold up other people and their busy schedules. Rey knew that waiting was an art that most happy people were fine with practicing, but she had seen what happened to people who wait.

 

Either they give up, their patience going unrewarded, or they're disappointed in the end. She had a lot of experience with the latter.

 

Her nanny had taught her to wait her turn when she was about three. She had learned many lessons since then, but at the end of all of it, it usually boiled down to that first lesson.

 

 _Wait_ until you're spoken to to speak. 

 

 _Wait_ for a lull in the conversation to speak if no one addresses you.

 

 _Wait_ if other people go first, put themselves first, put other things or people first, etc.

 

 _Wait_ until everyone is served before eating. 

 

 _Wait_ as patiently as you can for someone to help you if you need it. 

 

 _Wait_ , because that's all you're expected to do.

 

Unlearning the waiting game was impossible for Rey, and she doubted she'd ever let go of the concept at all. To not wait would to make yourself a nuisance. To not wait would be to force attention others might need more than you.

 

Yes, people had scolded her for waiting. Her professors had scolded her for waiting to tell them that she was sick and couldn't come to class. Rose had scolded her for waiting to speak her mind, say her piece, reveal her discomfort. 

 

The police dispatcher had scolded her for waiting so long to call and report that her parents hadn't come home from their party and that she had been alone for the better part of eight hours.

 

"Jesus Christ, you're just a kid!" The heavy Brooklyn accent had drawled through the phone receiver, and she still flinched now, remembering it. "Why did you wait so long?"

 

_It was the only thing I was taught._

 

Rey knew that she had no one to blame but herself. She had tried to wait until the day her parents noticed how good she was, tried to wait till they noticed how proud they actually were, tried to wait for the day that they loved her as much as she loved them.

 

But she had waited too long and now they were dead.

 

Amilyn made her wait, but she knew her godmother tried to not string Rey along, forced her to wait, made her think that she'd always have to wait instead of coming first.

 

It didn't change the fact that at many a family dinner as a teenager, she'd pick at her food, push it around the plate while she waited for Amilyn to get off the phone and stop talking about work.

 

So no, she didn't expect Ben to be waiting in the foyer when she unlocked the front door, standing there dumbly looking at him. His eyes were sleepy, but he was still awake, his gaze lifting to her now. 

 

She didn't think he'd wait for her, not when she hadn't waited for him earlier. 

 

They said nothing for a few moments, instead staring at each other in the faint light creeping in from the kitchen night light and a living room window, a sliver of moon cutting across the carpet as if to separate them, make them mind the distance. Rey stopped waiting, hand still on the doorknob, idly twisting and turning it in her hand as she considered Ben.

 

"Why are you up?" 

 

Ben blinked at the question, scratched his chin, eyes never leaving her. "I was waiting for you."

 

"You were… waiting for me?" She tried the words out on her tongue, took note of how dry her mouth was, wondered if that was why the words felt foreign on her tongue. She had said those words, but this was maybe the first time she had string them all together like that, and it sounded like a song playing on the radio for the first time-- maybe good, maybe bad, definitely new, and definitely something she's need to hear again to be sure.

 

"Yeah." Ben straightened up and leaned forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he rested his chin in his hands. "I wanted to make sure you were safe."

 

A pause, and then he sighed. "I know you'd do the same for me."

 

Would she? Rey didn't know for sure, not when her brain was this fuzzy, her eyes this clouded, her throat itching as she swallowed down tears.

 

"Oh." She paused now too. "Thank you."

 

They stared at each other for a moment longer, and then Ben was back on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

"I guess I'm going to bed now," he mumbled, and went to turn away. He probably wasn't expecting her to move, stride quickly towards him, catching his arm before he could leave her in the foyer, lonely as always. 

 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling the itch of tears burning at her once again.

 

"No, I'm sorry," Ben breathed back. He's not looking at her now, looking to his feet. In the moonlight, Rey could see the drops of wet on the bathrobe he wore, could see how his muscles tensed and relaxed under her hand. "You were right. I move too fast."

 

"I move too slow," she said, and now he looked at her with those swirling whiskey eyes. She felt nauseous, paler than usual, not at all giddy or drunk anymore. Seeing him had sobered her more than a slap to the face or a splash of cold water. She almost flinched as he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against hers for a moment. She had expected his lips to try and find hers, expected to move fast again, but now his movements were slow, his palm coming to cradle her cheek.

 

His hand was warm on her cold cheek, and her eyes itched all the more.

 

He said nothing, but he didn't have to. Rey could hear how loud his heart was beating-- or was that hers? Was it just hers?

 

She didn't know and didn't have the answer by the time he pulled away, looking solemn and thoughtful, his eyes searching hers for something. 

 

Maybe permission, and she nearly opened her mouth, asked him to kiss her, asking for permission to be damned, but then he spoke.

 

"I don't know how to take care of others. Tell me what I need to do." There was more implication there, some confession of fear or anxiety, some thought about if she even wanted him around right now.

 

He had already touched her though, and she was touching him now, and she wanted to say it was enough, censor the 'almost' that cooed in her ear, reminded her that she could have had more tonight. 

 

"Nothing," she answered quietly, and she waits for him to pull away, make some excuse about stepping out for himself now, some excuse to make sure she'd lay in bed alone. 

 

She waited for him to solidify that she had waited too long to realize much of anything about the two of them, be it as individuals or as a partnership. 

 

Instead, he shook his head, pursed his lips. "I'm getting you a cup of water at least. I want to take care of you."

 

Rey said nothing, even as her heart wailed to her about his last sentence, took pleasure in it, marveled at it, shrank back from it. For now, she just nodded and let him guide her away from the door, still standing open and waiting for someone to close it, much like how Ben waited for someone to open it.

 

No, neither of them were really used to waiting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I'm so sorry for using the word "wait" and its variations half a thousand times.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Thanks so much for your patience-- with how busy my semester has been, I'm surprised that I survived. But I did, and you all survived the TROS premiere, so here's a sweet treat for you all!

He was used to waking up alone. 

 

It was something he had learned at a young age, and he could almost feel his mother's gentle hand on the crown of his head, stroking his hair until he fell asleep, the silk of her evening gloves smelling of honeysuckle and amber. She was always gone when he woke up in the middle of the night, clinging to his teddy bear, wondering where she went.

 

In time, she wouldn't even so much as check that he was in bed before leaving for the countless galas, charity benefits, last minute business trips. For a time, he'd sit up, hold vigil for her, hoping to hear the click of her heels, hoping for the chance to dive under his covers, pretend to be stirring rather than wide awake when the door swung open.

 

The door never opened though.

 

It was no wonder then that, throughout his life, he preferred his bed to himself. It's not as if anyone wanted to stay anyways, a bias confirmed by every lover who had ever laid beside him, only to toss the covers off and toss their clothes back on. He was most familiar with the sight of people retreating, and he never questioned it, save for one time.

 

_ "Why do you never stay the night?"  _ He remembers how Bazine paused at the question, met his eyes in the vanity mirror as she clasped her earrings back in place.

 

She shrugged, turned back to her own reflection.  _ "You don't seem like you actually want anyone to stay." _ Then, as if to soften the blow:  _ "Besides, I'm not much of a cuddler." _

 

Sleeping alone was one of the few things Ben Solo knew how to do well, but as he stirred to the sound of gentle snoring, he didn't mind that he wasn't good at it anymore, even as he jolted up slightly, finding his arm pinned beneath Rey, having been curled protectively around her frame as they slept. 

 

In fact, Rey had probably forever ruined sleeping alone for him, her head tucked just under his chin, her cheek resting against the flat of her palm, the back of the hand anchored to his chest, it seemed. Even in the gray, pre-dawn light, she seemed rosy, her lips puffing gently with every exhale, her eyelids barely fluttering as she dreamed. Her hair was still damp from the shower she had insisted she take before bed, leaving him pacing outside the bathroom door.

 

"I'm tipsy, Ben. I'm not going to drown in the shower, I promise." She had rolled her eyes at him even as she soothed him, and she hadn't been surprised to find him waiting for her. 

 

After all, she was teaching him how to take care of someone, and he wanted to be good at something like that, especially for someone like her. 

 

They had stumbled around each other that first hour after she had returned to the flat, not quite knowing what to do. It was as if they had learned this certain dance, had mastered it, and then were told to dance each other's parts. There had been some toes stepped on, some confusion, but Ben couldn't deny the pride that welled in his chest now as he peeked over Rey's head and saw the cup of water on her bedside table, a small Dixie cup holding two Ibuprofen tablets beside it.

 

This lesson had been different from their past ones. Rey had been silent at first, watching him as he moved about the Parisian flat, unsure of where anything was, let alone what to do. She stilled him with a question, asked almost nervously: 

 

"What do you like done to avoid a hangover?" 

 

Something had clicked then, though it may be more accurate to say that the realization rammed into him suddenly, painfully, shamefully, like a metal rod to the heart. He did know what to do, though it was through the wrong kind of experience. He had looked to her helplessly, opened his mouth as if to answer, but her hand had covered his, her eyes shining with understanding and drowsiness, her words soft.

 

"I'll tell you what I need, if that helps."

 

It did help. It helped so much. He could do something with that. Rey's directives were clear, simple, even if the alcohol made her words slur together, made her wrinkle her nose at him when he presented her with a glass of water, told her to drink it all by the time he came back from turning down her bed. 

 

To her credit, Rey was good at following directions, not just at giving them. He considered that now and shivered, remembered how her eyes had darkened and locked into his when he returned to find the cup empty. He had only murmured, "There's a good girl," the comment more to himself than to her, but the effect was the same, and he shivered again. 

 

Maybe he was right about that praise kink after all.

 

He hadn't expected her to ask him into bed. Granted, it wasn't in the way he was used to being taken to bed-- there was no tearing off clothes, no hot touches, no desperation. Only a plea, her hand patting the space next to her.

 

"Stay. Please? Just for a bit."

 

He could never say no to her. He knew he couldn't, and so he sank down beside her, surprised at how she scooted closer, entwined her legs with his, pulled his arms to close around her. He was afraid, even now, that she'd deny it in the morning, insist that it was the alcohol talking, but when she had sighed, settled her head down in the crook of his neck, there wasn't space in his chest for fear. Something else had taken up residence there, and he had drifted off wondering what it could be.

 

Despite himself, Ben smoothed a wayward strand of hair from her face, flinching as she suddenly moved, her head lolling back against the pillow. In a moment, the silence was punctured by Rey's indelicate snoring and then by a cough, Ben snorting at the sound. 

 

It was nice to know that, at least when asleep, Reyna Kenobi was just like anyone else.

 

It was this moment of normalcy that had Ben closing his own eyes, though not with sleep, but with thought. This could have happened sooner, with someone else, if he had been on the right path.

 

The thought made him almost nauseous, and he rolled closer to Rey, buried his nose in her hair, pushed out the idea of someone other than her beside him. 

 

Maybe if he had been on the right path, she would have come into his life sooner. Maybe. That was the folly of thinking of the what-ifs: so many possibilities, so many ways it could have gone. Good and bad possibilities alike, but none of them were right for him. Not as right as this moment here.

 

He could pretend that he had gotten everything right in a moment like this. 

 

He tried to picture what this moment would be like if he was a good guy instead of a fuck up. If he had been diligent and became a stockbroker, a lawyer, a doctor, anything that would have made his parents proud. None of those alternatives felt right, deep down in his gut. They never had felt right to him, this thought process nothing new. It had helped him drift off during his stint in rehab, something that his therapist had suggested. Something to think about, aspire to.

 

It just made him feel guilty, and he burrowed himself closer to the woman beside him, trying to forget everything except how she felt in his arms. 

 

With her in his arms, he could conquer the world. Or perhaps, more accurately, come along for the ride while she conquered it. He certainly didn't mind. He could live in this possibility until he couldn't, until she decided that he shouldn't.

 

It felt wrong to have such dark thoughts swirling in his head, tightening his gut, creating the kind of doubt that'd set anyone on edge.

 

 But he was used to that, wasn't he? He was used to being a stepping stone to something better. He and Armitage often joked that women found their soulmates after leaving him. It was a joke confirmed on the flight to Paris, an unopened last-minute wedding invitation waiting to be deleted from his inbox, the summons most likely made for high society appearances (woe to those who snubbed a Skywalker) or out of hopes for yet another extravagant gift.

 

_ Mr. And Mrs. Joseph Netal cordially invite you to the joyous celebration of love between their daughter, Bazine, and…. _

 

He huffed a laugh, almost shook his head, freezing as Rey shifted in his arms, reminded him of the present moment. He curled closer, taking pleasure in how warm she was, how relaxed her brow was for once. It was nice to not be the reason she frowned, he mused, faltering before he brushed a kiss against her forehead.

 

_ Just this once. Let me pretend a little longer. _

 

Rey smelled of strawberries and peaches, Ben tentatively reaching out, his fingers gentle as he stroked her hair, heard her sigh against his chest. 

 

In a moment, his ears perked up, her murmur quiet. "Ben?"

 

"Hey," he whispered back, her still squinting eyes finding him in the half dark, her expression imperceptible. 

 

"You stayed." 

 

There was something about how the sentence was punctuated with a sigh, how her lips upturned slightly at the realization, that hurt Ben to the core. How could anyone not stay for her? It didn't make sense when it was the most natural thing in the world to him. 

 

Granted, it was selfish on his part for wanting to stay, especially if she didn't want him to. Ben had made some very selfish decisions in his life, and each time, they had been the wrong decisions.

 

Staying with her though? That would possibly be the most selfish decision he'd ever make, if she'd let him.

 

_ Please, Rey. Let me. _

 

He didn't say any of that, letting his fingers gently card through her hair still, press a kiss to her crown. "I did. I can leave, if you'd rath--"

 

"No." In a moment, her legs were tangled with his again, as if to keep him rooted with her. "Stay."

 

"Alright, sweetheart. Only if you want me to." His stomach was flip-flopping, like a fish on dry land, but he pushed the feeling down. "How are you feeling?"

 

"Bad," she frowned, her face scrunching with discontent. "My mouth tastes fuzzy and my head hurts."

 

"There's painkillers and water next to you," he reminded her, Rey's eyes brightening for a moment before she frowned again. 

 

"That means I have to let go of you. You're warm, and I'm cozy." As if to prove it, she slipped an arm around his waist, buried her face in the crook of his neck. "I don't want to move."

 

He chuckled at that and she seemed to like that, smiling up at him as if this was natural, routine, expected. As if she had been waiting for him to finally join her. 

 

"Trust me, sweetheart, it's better to bite the bullet now than to wake up later feeling extra shitty."

 

Rey harrumphed at him, especially now as he sat up, the morning air so much colder than the embrace he just left. Still, he coaxed her up, and even now, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes still a bit bloodshot, her breath just a bit stale...she was beautiful. His heart squeezed, and he wanted nothing more than to scoop her up, pull her closer, spend the day in bed, doing nothing.

 

(If you had told Ben Solo that he'd be more than happy to lie in bed with a beautiful woman and do  _ nothing _ , even just a few months before, he would have taken that bet. At least he could afford to take that bet, and progress is progress, right?)

 

She was glaring at the cup of water he had handed her, as if to will it into her without exerting the effort to raise the glass to her lips to sip, and he almost hated how enraptured he was to just watch her. 

 

"Come on, sweetheart. Even a few sips will help."

 

He didn't know if that was true. He didn't remember many of his hangovers, partially because he used to have a knack for blacking out, stepping away from reality for a while.

 

Truth or effectiveness aside, it seemed to convince her enough, Rey drained the cup, turned back to him. She smirked at him, gently waved the cup in his face, her words a soft tease. "Are you going to call me a good girl again?"

 

"Only if you want me to," he replied, and for a moment, he wondered if it was the wrong thing to say, Rey's brow furrowing, a slight frown on her lips. He wondered if he should say something, almost opened his mouth to do just that, but then:

 

"I don't know what I want you to do." The admission was quiet, and her gaze was on her hands, not on him, and despite himself, Ben found himself reaching for her, pulling her closer. She didn't resist, leaning her head on his shoulder now. 

 

"You confuse me," she blurted, and he let himself laugh at that, the rumble of it soft and strong against her ears, he supposed, watching her burrow closer. 

 

"I mean it. I don't know what to do with you." She shrugged with exasperation, her voice barely registering above a whisper, a murmur, the pale dawn light filtering blue through her curtains. Soon, the sky would be on fire with the rising sun and she'd have to confront the day as if they were nothing, not even friends. She wasn't sure she could take it. 

 

"You don't have to know," he whispered back, and Rey looked at him, studying him now, taking note of the light gray, almost bruise-like bags under his eyes, the course stubble on his chin. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the words, so confused as she was, and his embrace on her tightened just a bit more. 

 

"I mean it, Rey. We don't have to know what we're doing-- just as long as we're doing it with each other." His lips were trembling, and she couldn't resist bringing her fingers to them, feeling the plushness under her fingertips. In a moment, they were slipping away, to his cheek, watching him lean into her cradling hold.

 

"Just let me stay. Even if it's just for a little while." He sighed, his eyes returning to hers in a moment. "Please."

 

Her answer was quiet, tentative, her thumb brushing across his cheek before she leaned forward, pressed her lips against his. She felt him falter, but then there were his hands-- so large, feeling so much like a home to come back to-- coming up to cup her face, keep her anchored, hold her close. The kiss deepened for only a moment-- a shy meeting of tongue and teeth, backed up by the sound of her heart racing-- and then they both retreated.

 

Rey wondered if she'd get her breath back, wondering why she was panting, why she felt as if she was coming down from a runner's high, why she felt more accomplished now than she had before. It was surreal to be sitting hungover in a bed in Paris, wrapped up in the arms of someone like Ben Solo. If anyone had suggested this to be in her future, she would have laughed.

 

She wasn't laughing now, her forehead resting against his, his breath warm on her face, tickling her nose as she finally sighed. 

 

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

The bedroom door had been left open just a crack-- after all, Ben would have hated to wake Rey if he had to slip off to the bathroom-- and for a moment, a figure paused by it, eyebrow raised. 

 

Maz Kanata was never one to eavesdrop, especially on her host, but having just been ushered into the flat by Poe and then left for a moment as he turned down a bed in one of the other guest bedrooms… well, curiosity had gotten the better of her. 

 

She hadn't expected anyone besides herself to be awake and somewhat functioning at this hour, seeing that she had just gotten off a red-eye flight, but she knew Rey's voice and remembered Ben Solo's voice well enough from her past work with his family. To hear them conversing civilly and tenderly could have been surprising after what Amilyn had told her, but it wasn't.

 

It was right. 

 

The woman smiled to herself, slipping away from the door silently, only pausing to pluck her glasses from her face, polish them on her cashmere sweater. It was all too early to question anyone about anything, let alone the worst and best behaved people in New York, so she tucked it away, nodded to Poe as he returned, waved for her to follow.

 

Her protege had much to answer for, but that could wait. A new day was dawning, after all, and who was she to disrupt such a sunrise of an occasion? Another smile, and Maz padded down the hall after Poe. 

 

Some more sleep never hurt anyone, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the reads, kudos, comments and more! ♥️ Next update should be coming soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr (hersisterskeeper) or Twitter (HerSisKeeper)! I hope you enjoyed!


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